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^STHER: 


A BOOK FOR GIRLS. 


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BY 

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, 

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AUTHOR OF “ NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS,” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED, 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J, B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


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CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

I. 

n. 

m. 

rv. 

V. 

VI. 

vn. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

xni. 


The Last Day at Redmatne House 
The Arrival at Combe Manor , 
Dot . . . . . 

Uncle Geoffrey . 

The Old House at Milnthorpb 

The Flitting 

Over the Way 

Flurry and Flossy , 

The Cedars . , . , 

‘I wish I HAD a Dot of my own* 
Miss Ruth’s Nurse . 

‘I WAS NOT LIKE OTHER GiRLS* . 

‘We have Missed Dame Bustle* 


PAQB 

. 7 

16 
. 25 

36 
. 46 

55 
• 65 

74 
. 85 

95 
. 107 
116 
. 126 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

XIV. Plating in Tom Tidler’s Ground 

XV. Life at the Brambles . . 

XVI. The Smugglers’ Gave • , • 

xvn. A Long Night 

XVIII. ‘You Brave Girl’ . , , 

XIX. A Letter from Home 

XX. ‘You WERE Right, Esther* 

XXI. Santa Claus 

xxn. Allan and I walk to Eltham Green . 
XXIII. Told in the Sunset 
xxrv. Ringing the Changes • . * 


PAGE 

135 
. 147 
158 
. 168 
180 
• 192 
202 
. 212 
223 
. 234 
246 



W HAT trifles vex one ! 

I was always sorry that my name was Esther ; 
not that I found fault with the name itself, but 
it was too grave, too full of meaning for such an insignificant 
person. Some one who was learned in such matters — I 
think it was Allan — told me once that it meant a star, or 
good fortune. 

It may be so, but the real meaning lay for me in the 
marginal note of my Bible ; Esther, fair of form and good 
in countenance, that Hadassah, who was brought to the 
palace of Shushan, the beautiful Jewish Queen who loved 
and succoured her suffering people; truly a bright par- 
ticular star amongst them. 

Girls, even the best of them, have their whims and 
fancies, and I never looked at myself in the glass on high 
days and holidays, when a festive garb was desirable, with- 
out a scornful protest, dumbly uttered, against so shining 
a name. There was such a choice, and I would rather have 
been Deborah or Leah, or even plain Susan, or Molly ; 
anything homely, that would have suited my dark, low- 
browed face. Tail and angular, and hard-featured — what 
business had I with such a name ? 


8 


ESTHER. 


‘ My dear, beauty is only skin-deep, and common sense 
is worth its weight in gold ; and you are my good sensible 
Esther,’ my mother said once, when I had hinted rather 
too strongly at my plainness. Dear soul, she was anxious 
to appease the pangs of injured vanity, and was full of such 
sweet balmy speeches ; but girls in the ugly duckling stage 
are not alive to moral compliments ; and, w^ell — perhaps I 
hoped my mother might find contradiction possible. 

Well, I am older and wiser now, less troublesomely in- 
trospective, and by no means so addicted to taking my 
internal structure to pieces, to find out how the motives and 
feelings work ; but all the same, I hold strongly to diversity 
of gifts. I believe beauty is a gift, one of the good things 
of God ; a very special talent, for which the owner must 
give account. But enough of this moralising, for I want 
to speak of a certain fine afternoon in the year of our 
Lord, 18 — , well, never mind the date. 

It was one of our red-letter days at Eedmayne House, — 
in other words, a whole holiday ; we always had a whole 
holiday on Miss Majoribanks’ birthday. The French 
governess had made a grand toilette, and had gone out for 
the day. Fraulein had retired to her own room, and was 
writing a long sentimental effusion to a certain ‘ liebe Anna,’ 
who lived at Heidelberg. As Fraulein had taken several of 
us into confidence, we had heard a great deal of this Anna 
von Hummel, a little round-faced German, with flaxen 
plaits and china-blue eyes, like a doll ; and Jessie and I 
had often wondered at this strong Teutonic attachment. 
Most of the girls were playing croquet — they played croquet 
then — on the square lawn before the drawing-room windows; 
the younger ones were swinging in the lime- walk. Jessie 
and I had betaken ourselves with our bocks to a corner we 
much affected, where there was a bench under a may-tree. 

Jessie was my school friend — chum, I think we called it ; 
she was a fair, pretty girl, with a thoroughly English face, 
a neat compact figure, and manners which every one pro- 
nounced charming and lady-like ; her mind was lady-like 
too, which was the best of all. 


THE LAST DAY AT REDMAYNE HOUSE, 


9 

Jessie read industriously — her book seemed to rivet her 
attention ; but I was restless and distrait. The sun was 
shining on the limes, and the fresh green leaves seemed to 
thrill and shiver with life; a lazy hveeze kept up a faint 
soughing, a white butterfly was hovering over the pink may, 
the girls' shrill voices sounded everywhere ; a thousand un- 
developed thoughts, vague and unsubstantial as the sunshine 
above us, seemed to blend with the sunshine and voices. 

‘ Jessie, do put down your book — I want to talk.' Jessie 
raised her eyebrows a little quizzically, but she was always 
amiable ; she had that rare unselfishness of giving up her 
own will ungrudgingly ; I think this was why I loved her so. 
Her story was interesting, but she put down her book 
without a sigh. 

‘You are always talking, Esther,' she said, with a pro- 
voking little smile; ‘but then,' she added, quickly, as 
though she were afraid that I should think her unkind, ‘ I 
never heard other girls talk so well.' 

‘ Nonsense,' was my hasty response ; ‘ don't put me out 
of temper with myself. I was indulging in a little bit of 
philosophy while you were deep in the Daisy Chain. I 
was thinking what constituted a great mind.' 

Jessie opened her eyes widely, but she did not at once 
reply ; she was not, strictly speaking, a clever girl, and did 
not at once grasp any new idea ; our conversations were 
generally rather one-sided. Emma Hardy, who was our 
school wag, once observed that I used Jessie’s brains as an 
airing-place for my ideas. Certainly Jessie listened more 
than she talked, but then she listened so sweetly. 

‘ Of course, Alfred the Great, and Sir Philip Sidney, and 
Princess Elizabeth of France, and all the heroes and 
heroines of old time — all the people who did such great 
things and lived such wonderful lives — may be said to have 
had great minds ; but I am not thinking about them. I 
want to know what makes a great mind, and how one is to 
get it. There is Carrie, now, you know how good she is ; 
I think she may be said to have one.' 

‘ Carrie — your sister ? ' 


lO 


ESTHER. 


‘ Why, yes,’ I returned, a little impatiently ; for certainly 
Jessie could not think I meant that stupid, peevish little 
Carrie Steadman, the dullest girl in the school ; and whom 
else should I mean but Carrie, my own dear sister, who was 
two years older than I, and who was as good as she was 
pretty, and who set us all such an example of unworldliness 
and self-denial ; and Jessie had spent the Christmas 
holidays at our house, and had grown to know and love her 
too ; and yet she could doubt of whom I was speaking : it 
could not be denied that Jessie was a little slow. 

‘ Carrie is so good,’ I went on, when I had cooled a little, 
‘ I am sure she has a great mind. When I read of Mrs. 
Judson and Elizabeth Fry, or of any of those grand 
creatures, I always think of Carrie. How few girls of 
nineteen would deprive themselves of half their dress 
allowance, that they might devote it to the poor ; she has 
given up parties because she thinks them frivolous and a 
waste of time; and though she plays so beautifully, mother 
can hardly get her to practise, because she says it is a pity 
to devote so much time to a mere accomplishment, when 
she might be at school, or reading to poor old Betty 
Martin.’ 

‘ She might do both,’ put in Jessie, rather timidly; for 
she never liked contradicting any of my notions, however 
far-fetched and ill-assorted they might be. ‘ Do you know, 
Esther, I fancy your mother is a little sorry that Carrie is 
so unlike other girls ; she told me once that she thought it 
such a pity that she had let her talents rust after all the 
money that had been spent on her education.’ 

‘ You must have misunderstood my mother,’ I returned, 
somewhat loftily ; ‘ I heard her once say to Uncle Geoffrey 
that she thought Carrie was almost perfection. You have 
no idea how much Mr. Arnold thinks of her ; he is always 
holding her up as his pattern young lady in the parish, and 
declares that he should not know what to do without her. 
She plays the organ at all the week-day services, and 
teaches at the Sunday School, and she has a district now, 
and a Bible-class for the younger girls. No wonder she 


THE LAST DAY AT REDMAYNE HOUSE, 


II 


cannot find time to practise, or to keep up her drawing.’ 
And I looked triumphantly at Jessie ; but her manner did 
not quite please me. She might not be clever, but she had 
a good solid set of opinions to which she could hold stoutly 
enough. 

‘Don’t think me disagreeable, Esther,’ she pleaded. ‘I 
think a great deal of Carrie ; she is very sweet, and pretty, 
and good, and we should all be better if we were more like 
her ; but no one is quite faultless, and I think even Carrie 
makes mistakes at times.’ 

‘ Oh, of course ! ’ I answered a little crossly, for I could 
not bear her finding fault with Carrie, who was such a 
paragon in my eyes. But Jessie took no notice of my 
manner, she was such a wise little creature ; and I cannot 
help thinking that the less importance we attach to people’s 
manner the better. Under a little roughness there is often 
good stuff, and some good people are singularly unfortunate 
in manner. 

So Jessie went on in her gentle way, ‘ Do you remember 
Miss Majoribanks’ favourite copy: “Moderation in all 
things ” ? I think this ought to apply to everything we do. 
We had an old nurse once, who used to say such droll things 
to us children. I remember I had been very good, and 
done something very wonderful, as I thought, and nursie 
said to me in her dry way, “Well, Miss Jessie, my dear, 
duty is not a hedgehog, that you should be bristling all over 
in that way. There is no getting at you to-day, you are 
too fully armed at all points for praise.” And she would 
not say another word ; and another time, when I thought 
I ought to have been commended, she said, “ Least done is 
soonest mended ; and well done is not ill done, and that is 
all about it.” Poor old nurse ! she would never praise 
any one.’ 

‘ But, Jessie — how does this apply to Carrie ? ’ 

‘Well, not very much, I daresay; only I think Carrie 
overdoes her duty sometimes. I remember one evening 
your mother looked so disappointed when Carrie said she 
was too tired to sing.’ 


12 


ESTHER. 


‘ You mean the evening wh6n the Scobells were there, 
and Carrie had been doing parish work all the day, and she 
came in looking so pale and fagged? I thought mother 
was hard on her that night. Carrie cried about it after- 
wards in my room/’ ’ 

‘ Oh, Esther, I thought she spoke so gently ! She only 
said, ‘‘ Would it not have been better to have done a little 
less to-day, and reserved yourself for our friends? We 
ought never to disappoint people if we can help it/” 

‘ Yes ; only mother looked as if she were really dis- 
pleased ; and Carrie could not bear that ; she said in her 
last letter that mother did not sympathise entirely in her 
w^ork, and that she missed me dreadfully, for the whole at- 
mosphere was rather chilling sometimes.’ 

Jessie looked a little sorry at this. ‘ No one could think 
that of your home, Esther.’ And she sighed, for her home 
was very different from ours. Her parents were dead, and 
as she was an only child, she had never known the love of 
brother or sister ; and the aunt who brought her up was a 
strict, narrow-minded sort of person, with manners that 
must have been singularly uncongenial to my affectionate, 
simple-minded Jessie. Poor Jessie ! I could not help 
giving her one of my bear-like hugs at this, so well did I 
know the meaning of that sigh ; and there is no telling into 
what channel our talk would have drifted, only just at that 
moment Belle Martin, the pupil-teacher, appeared in 
sight, walking very straight and fast, and carrying her chin 
in an elevated fashion, a sort of practical exposition of 
Madame’s ‘ Heads up, young ladies ! ’ But this was only 
her way, and Belle was a good creature. 

‘ You are to go in at once. Miss Cameron,’ she called out, 
almost before she reached us. ‘ Miss Majoribanks has sent 
me to look for you ; your imcle is with her in the drawing- 
room.’ 

‘Uncle Geoffrey? Oh, my dear Uncle Geoff!’ I ex- 
claimed, joyfully. ‘ Do you really mean it. Belle ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Dr. Cameron is in the drawing-room,’ repeated 
Belle. But I never noticed how grave her voice was. She 


THE LAST DAY AT RED M AVNE HOUSE. 


13 


c timenced whispering to Jessie almost before I was a yard 
a' a,y, and I thought I heard an exclamation in Jessie’s 
voice ; but I only said to myself, ‘ Oh, my dear Uncle 
Geoff ! ’ in a tone of suppressed ecstasy, and I looked round 
on the croquet players as I threaded the lawn with a sense 
of phy that not one of them possessed an uncle like mine. 

Miss Majoribanks was seated in state, in her well-pre- 
served black satin gown, with her black gloves reposing in 
her lap, looking rather like a feminine mute ; but on this 
occasion I took no notice of her. I actually forgot my 
curtsey, and I am afraid I made one of my awkward rushes, 
for Miss Majoribanks groaned slightly, though afterwards 
she turned it into a cough. 

‘ Why, Esther, you are almost a woman now,’ said my 
uncle, putting me in front of him, and laying his heavy 
hand on my shoulder. ‘ Bless me, how the child has 
grown, and how unlike she is to Carrie ! ’ 

‘ I was seventeen yesterday,’ I answered, pouting a little, 
for I understood the reference to Carrie ; and was I not the 
ugly duckling ? — but I would not keep up the sore feeling a 
minute, I was so pleased to see him. 

No one would call Uncle Geoffrey handsome — oh dear 
no ! his features were too rugged for that : but he had a 
droll, clever face, and a pair of honest eyes, and his grey 
hair was so closely cropped that it looked like a silver cap. 
He was a little restless and fidgety in his movements, too, 
and had ways that appeared singular to strangers, but 5 
always regarded his habits respectfully. Clever men, I 
thought, were often eccentric ; and I was quite angry with 
my mother when she used to say, * Geoff was an old 
bachelor, and he wanted a wife to polish him ; I should 
like to se‘e any woman dare to marry IJncle Geoff.’ 

‘Seventeen, sweet seventeen! Eh, Esther?’ but he 
still held my hand and looked at me thoughtfully. It was 
then I first noticed how grave he looked. 

‘ Have you come from Combe Manor, Uncle Geoff, and 
are they all quite well at home? ’ I asked, rather anxiously, 
for he seemed decidedly nervous. 


H 


ESTHER. 


‘ Well, no,’ he returned, rather slowly ; * I am sorry to 
spoil your holiday, child, but I have come by your mother's 
express desire to fetch you home. Frank — your father, I 
mean — is not well, and they will be glad of your help and 
— bless me ’ — Uncle Geoff’s favourite exclamation — * how 
pale the girl looks ! ’ 

‘ You are keeping something from me — he is very ill — I 
know he is very ill ! ’ I exclaimed, passionately. ‘ Oh, 

uncle, do speak out ! he is ’ but I could not finish my 

sentence, only Uncle Geoffrey understood. 

‘ No, no, it is not so bad as that,’ putting his arm round 
me, for I was trembling and shaking all over ; ‘ he is very 
ill — I dare not deny that there is much ground for fear ; 
but, Esther, we ought to lose no time in getting away from 
here. Will you swallow this glass of wine, like a good, 
brave child, and then pack up your things as soon as 
possible ? ’ 

There was no resisting Uncle Geoffrey’s coaxing voice ; 
all his patients did what he told them, so I drank the wine, 
and tried to hurry from the room, only my knees felt so 
weak. 

‘ Miss Martin will assist you,’ whispered Miss Majoribanks, 
as I passed her ; and, sure enough, as I entered the dor- 
mitory, there was Belle emptying my drawers, with Jessie 
helping her. Even in my bewildered state of wretchedness 
I wondered why Miss Majoribanks thought it necessary for 
me to take all my things. Was I bidding good-bye to 
Eedmayne House? 

Belle looked very kindly at me as she folded my dresses, 
but Jessie came up to me with tears in her eyes. ‘ Oh, 
Esther ! ’ she whispered, ‘ how strange to think we were 
talking as we were, and now the opportunity has come ! * 
and though her speech was a little vague, I understood it : 
she meant the time for me to display my greatness of mind 
— ah, me ! my greatness of mind — where was it ? I was 
of no use at all ; the girls did it all between them, whilst I 
sat on the edge of my little bed and watched them. They 
were as quick as possible, and yet it seemed hours before 


THE LAST DAY AT REDMAYNE HOUSE. 15 

the box was locked, and Belle had handed me the key ; by- 
and-by, Miss Majoribanks came and fetched me down, for 
she said the fly was at the door, and Dr. Cameron was 
waiting. 

We girls had never cared much for Miss Majoribanks, 
but nothing could exceed her kindness then. I think the 
reason why schoolmistresses are not often beloved by their 
pupils — though there certainly are exceptions to that rule 
— is that they do not often show their good hearts. 

When Miss Majoribanks buttoned my gloves for me, and 
smoothed my hair, and gave me that motherly kiss, I felt 
I loved her. ‘ God bless you, my dear child ! we shall all 
miss you ; you have worked well and been a credit to the 
establishment. I am sorry indeed to part with you.* 
Actually these were Miss Majoribanks’ words, and spoken, 
too, in a husky voice ! 

And when I got downstairs, there were all the girls, 
many of them with their croquet mallets in their hands, 
gathered in the front garden, and little Susie Pierrepoint, 
the baby of the school, carrying a large bunch of lavender 
and sweet-william from her own little garden, which she 
thrust into my hands. 

‘They are for you,’ cried Susie; and then they all 
crowded round and kissed me. 

* Good-bye, Esther ; we are so sorry to lose you ; write 
to us and let us know how you are.’ 

Jessie’s pale little face came last. ‘ Oh, my darling ! how 
I shall be thinking of you ! ’ cried the affectionate creature ; 
and then I broke down, and Uncle Geoffrey led me away. 

‘ I am glad to see your school-fellows love you,’ he said, 
as we drove off, and Eedmayne House became lost to sight. 
‘ Human affection is a great boon, Esther.’ 

Dear Uncle Geoffrey ! he wanted to comfort me ; but for 
some time I would not speak or listen. 





Cf?c ^rripal at Combe DTartor. 


T he great secret of Uncle Geoffrey’s 
influence with people was a certain 
quiet undemonstrative sympathy. 
He did not talk much ; he was rather 
given to letting people alone, but his kindliness of look 
made his few spoken words more precious than the voluble 
condolences of others. 

He made no effort to check the torrent of tears that 
followed my first stunned feelings ; indeed, his ‘ Poor child ! ’ 
so tenderly uttered, only made them flow more quickly. 
It was not until we were seated in the railway compart- 
ment, and I had dried them of my own accord, that he 
attempted to rouse me by entering into conversation, and 
yet there was much that he knew must be said, only ‘ great 
haste, small speed,’ was always Uncle Geoffrey’s favourite 
motto. ‘ There is time for all things, and much more,’ as 
he used to tell us. 

‘ Are you better now ? ’ he asked, kindly. * That is 
right ; put your handkerchief away, and we can have a 
little talk together. You are a sensible girl, Esther, and 
have a wise little head on your shoulders. Tell me, my 
child, had you any idea of any special anxiety or trouble 
that was preying on your father’s mind ? ’ 

‘No, indeed,’ I returned, astonished. ‘I knew the farm 


THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR. 1 7 

was doing badly, and father used to complain now and then 
of Fred’s extravagance, and mother looked once ^ or twice 
very worried, but we did not think much about it. 

‘ Then 1 am afraid what I am going to tell you will be a 
great shock,’ he returned, gravely. ‘Your father and mother 
must have had heavy anxieties lately, though they have 
kept it from you children. The cause of_ your father’s 
illness is mental trouble. I must not hide from you, 
Esther, that he is ruined.’ 

‘ Euined ! ’ I tried to repeat the word aloud, but it died 
on my lips. 

‘ A man with a family ought not to speculate,’ went on 
my uncle, speaking more to himself than me. ‘ What did 
Prank know about the business ? About as much as Fred 
does about art. He has spent thousands on the farm, and 
it has been a dead loss from the beginning. He knew as 
much about farming as Carrie does._ Stuff and nonsense ! 
And then he must needs dabble in shares for Spanish 
mines ; and that new-fangled Wheal Catherine affair that 
has gone to smash lately. Every penny gone ; and a wife, 
and — how many of you are there, Esther ? ’ 

But I was too much overwhelmed to help him in his 
calculation, so he commenced striking off on his fingers, 
one by one. 

‘ Let me see ; there’s Fred, brought up, young coxcomb! 
to think himself a fine gentleman and an_ artist, with 
almost as much notion of work as I have of piano playing ; 
and Allan, who has more brains than the rest of you put 
together; and Carrie, who is half a saint and slightly 
hysterical ; and your poor little self ; and then comes that 
nondescript article Jack. Why in the world do you call a 
feminine creature Jack? And poor little Dot, who will 
never earn a penny for himself — humph, six of you to 
clothe and feed ’ 

‘ Oh, Uncle Geoff I ’ I burst out, taking no notice of this 
long tirade ; and what did it matter if Dot never earned 
anything when I would work my fingers to the bone for 
him , the darling ! — ‘ oh. Uncle Geoff, are things really so 

c 


i8 


ESTHER, 


bad as that ? Will Fred be obliged to give up his painting, 
when he has been to Eome, too ; and shall we have to leave 
Combe Manor, and the farm ? Oh, what will they all do ? 
and Carrie, too ? ’ 

‘ Work,’ was the somewhat grim reply, and then he went 
on in a milder tone. ‘ Things are very bad, Esther ; about 
as bad as they can be — for we must look matters in the 
face — and your father is very ill, and there is no knowing 
where the mischief may end ; but you must all put your 
shoulders to the domestic wheel, and push it up the Hill 
Difficulty. It is a crisis, and a very painful one, but it will 
prove which of you has the right mettle. 

‘ I am not afraid of Allan,’ he went on ; * the lad has 
plenty of good stuff in him ; and I am not much afraid of 

you, Esther, at least I think not; but * He hesitated, 

and then stopped, and I knew he was thinking of Fred and 
Carrie ; but he need not. Of course Carrie would work as 
heartily as any of us ; idling was never her forte ; and Fred 
— well, perhaps Fred was not always industrious. 

I seemed to have lost myself in a perfect tangle of doubt 
and dread. Uncle Geoffrey went on with his talk, half sad 
and half moralising, but I could not follow all he said. 
Two thoughts were buzzing about me like hornets. Father 
was ill, very ill, and we should have to leave Combe Manor. 
The sting of these thoughts was dreadful. 

I seemed to rouse out of a nightmare w’hen Uncle 
Geoffrey suddenly announced that we were at Crowbridge. 
No one was waiting for us at the station, which somewhat 
surprised me ; but Combe Manor was not a quarter of a 
mile off, so the luggage was wheeled away on a truck, and 
Uncle Geoffrey and I walked after it, up the sandy lane, 
and round by the hazel copse. And there were the fields, 
where Dapple, the grey mare, was feeding ; and there were 
Cherry, and Spot, and Brindle, and all the rest of the dear 
creatures, rubbing their horned heads against the hedge as 
usual; and two or three of them standing knee- deep in 
the great shallow pool, where Fred and Allan used to sail 
their boats, and make believe it was the Atlantic. We 


THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR. 1 9 

always called the little bit of sedgy ground under the 
willow America, and used to send freights of paper and 
cardboard across the mimic ocean, which did not always 

arrive safely. _ „ , , , .1 • t 

How lovely and peaceful it all looked on this June 
evening ! The sun shone on the red brick house and old- 
fashioned casements ; roses were climbing everywhere, on 
the walls, round the porch, over the very gateway. Fred 
was leaning against the gate, in his brown velveteen coat 
and slouched hat, looking so handsome and picturesque, 
poor fellow ! He had a Gloire de Dijon in his button- 
hole. I remember I wondered vaguely how he had had the 

heart to pick it. . , -r. 1 

‘How is he?’ called out Uncle Geoffrey. And Fred 
started, for though he was watching for us, he had not 
seen us turn the corner of the lane. 

‘No better,’ was the disconsolate answer, as he unlatched 
the gate, and stooped over it to kiss me. ‘We are expect- 
ing Allan down by the next train, and Carrie asked me to 
look out for you ; how do you do, Esther ? What have you 
done to yourself?’ eyeing me with a mixture'of chagrin and 
astonishment. I suppose crying had not improved my 
appearance; still, Fred need not have noticed my red eyes; 
but he was one who always ‘ looked on the outward 
appearance.’ , . , .a 

‘ She is tired and unhappy, poor little thing, repeated 
Uncle Geoffrey, answering for me, as he drew my arrn 
through his. ‘ I hope Carrie has got some tea for her ; ’ 
and as he spoke Carrie came out in the porch to meet us. 
How sweet she looked, the ‘ little Nun,’ as Fred always 
called her, in her grey dress; with her smooth fair hair 
and pale pretty face. 

‘ Poor Esther, how tired you look ! ’ she said, kissing me 
affectionately, but quietly — Carrie was always a little 
undemonstrative — ‘ but I have got tea for you in the brown 
room ’ (we always called it the brown room, because it was 
wainscoted in oak) ; ‘ will you have it now, or would you 
like to see mother?’ 


20 


ESTHER. 


*You had better have tea first and see your mother after- 
wards,’ observed Uncle Geoffrey ; but I would not take 
this prudent counsel. On the stairs I came upon Jack, 
curled up on a window-sill, with Smudge, our old black 
cat, in her arms, and was welcomed by both of them with 
much effusion. Jack was a tall, thin girl, all legs and 
arms, with a droll freckled face and round blue eyes, with 
all the awkwardness of fourteen, and none of its precocity. 
Her real name was Jacqueline, but we had always called 
her Jack, for brevity, and because, with her cropped head 
and rough ways, she resembled a boy more than a girl ; 
her hair was growing now, and hung about her neck in 
short ungainly lengths, but I doubt whether in its present 
stage it was any improvement. I am not at all sure 
strangers considered Jack a prepossessing child, she was so 
awkward and overgrown, but I liked her droll face im- 
mensely. Fred was always finding fault with her and 
snubbing her, which brought him nothing but pert replies ; 
then he would entreat mother to send her to school, but 
somehow she never went. . Dot could not spare her, and 
mother thought there was plenty of time, so Jack still 
roamed about at her own sweet will ; riding Dapple bare- 
backed round the paddock, milking Cherry, and feeding 
the chickens ; carrying on some pretence at lessons with 
Carrie, who was not a very strict mistress, and plaguing 
Fred, who had nice ways and hated any form of untidiness. 

‘ Oh, you dear thing ! * cried Jack, leaping from the 
window-seat and nearly strangling me, while Smudge 
rubbed himself lovingly against my dress ; ‘ oh, you dear, 
darling, delightful old Esther, how pleased I am to see you ! * 
(Certainly Jack was not undemonstrative.) ‘ Oh, it has 
been so horrid the last few days — father ill, and mother 
always with him, and Fred as cross as two sticks, and 
Carrie always too busy or too tired for any one to speak to 
her ; and Dot complaining of pain in his back and not 
caring to play, oh ! ’ finished Jack, with a long-drawn sigh, 
‘ it has been almost too horrid.’ 

‘Hush, Jack,’ was my sole reply; for there was dear 


THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR. 


21 


mother coming down the passage towards us. I had only 
been away from her two months, and yet it struck me that 
her hair was greyer and her face was thinner than it 
used to be, and there were lines on her forehead that I 
never remember to have seen before ; but she greeted me 
in her old affectionate way, putting back my hair from my 
face to look at me, and calling me her dear child. ‘ But I 
must not stop a moment, Esther,’ she said hurriedly, ‘ or 
father will miss me; take off your hat, and rest and refresh 
yourself, and then you shall come up and see him.’ 

‘ But, mother, where is Dot ? ’ 

‘ In there,’ motioning towards the sick room ; ‘ he is 
alw^ays there, we cannot keep him out,’ and her lip 
trembled. When Jack and I returned to the brown room, 
we found the others gathered round the table. Carrie, who 
was pouring out the tea, pointed to the seat beside her. 

It was the first dreary meal I had every remembered in 
the brown room ; my first evening at home had always 
been so happy. The shallow blue teacups and tiny plates 
alw^ays seemed prettier than other people’s china, and 
nothing ever tasted so delicious as our home-made brown 
bread and butter. 

But this evening the flavour seemed spoilt. Carrie sat 
in mother’s place looking sad and abstracted, and fingering 
her little silver cross nervously. Fred w^as downcast and 
out of spirits, returning only brief replies to Uncle Geoffrey’s 
questions, and only waking up to snub Jack if she spoke a 
word. Oh, how I wished Allan would make his appear- 
ance and put us all right ! It was quite a relief when I 
heard mother’s voice calling me, and she took me into the 
great cool room where father lay. 

Dot w^as curled up in mother’s great arm-chair, with his 
favourite book of natural history ; he slipped a hot little 
hand in mine as I passed him. 

Dot was our name for him because he was so little, but 
he had been called Frank, after our father ; he was eight 
years old, but he hardly looked bigger than a child of six. 
His poor back was crooked, and he was lame from hip- 


22 


ESTHER, 


disease ; sometimes for weeks together the cruel abscesses 
wasted his strength, at other times he was tolerably free 
from pain ; even at his worst times Dot was a cheery 
invalid, for he was a bright patient little fellow. He had a 
beautiful little face, too, though perhaps the eyes were a 
trifle too large for the thin features ; but Dot was my pet, 
and I could see no fault in him ; nothing angered me more 
than when people pitied him or lamented over his infirmity. 
When I first came home the sound of his crutch on the 
floor was the sweetest music in my ear. But I had no eyes 
even for Dot after my first look at father. Oh, how 
changed, how terribly changed he was ! The great wave 
of brown hair over his forehead was grey, his features 
were pinched and haggard, and when he spoke to me his 
voice was different, and he seemed hardly able to articu- 
late. 

‘ Poor children — poor children ! * he groaned ; and as I 
kissed his cheek he said, ‘ Be a good ghl, Esther, and try 
to be a comfort to your mother.* 

‘ When I am a man I shall try and be a comfort, too,* 
cried Dot, in his sharp chirpy voice ; it quite startled 
father. 

‘ That*s my brave boy,* said father, faintly, and I think 
there were tears in his eyes. ‘ Dora,* — my mother *s name 
was Dora — ‘ I am too tired to talk ; let the children go 
now, and come and sit by me while I go to sleep ; * and 
mother gently dismissed us. 

I had rather a difficulty with Dot when I got outside, for 
he suddenly lowered his crutch and sat down on the floor. 

don*t want to go to bed,* he announced, decidedly. 

* I shall sit here all night, in case mother wants me ; when 
it gets dark she may feel lonely.* 

‘ But, Dot, mother will be grieved if she comes out and 
finds you here ; she has anxiety enough as it is; and if you 
make yourself ill, too, you will only add to her trouble. 
Come, be a good boy, and let me help you to undress.* 
But I might as well have talked to Smudge. Dot had 
these obstinate fits at times ; he was tired, and his nerves 


THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR. 


23 

were shaken by being so many hours in the sick room, and 
nothing would have induced him to move. I was so tired 
at last that I sat down on the floor, too, and rested my 
head against the door, and Dot sat bolt upright like a 
watchful little dog, and in this ridiculous position we were 
discovered by Allan. I had not heard of his arrival ; and 
when he came towards us, springing lightly up two stairs 
at a time, I could not help uttering a suppressed exclama- 
tion of delight. 

He stopped at once and looked at us in astonishment, 
‘Dot and Esther ! in the name of all that is mysterious ; 
huddled up like two Chinese gods on the matting. "Why, 
I took Esther for a heap of clothes in the twilight.’ Of 
course I told him how it happened. Dot was naughty and 
would not move, and I was keeping him company. Allan 
hardly heard me out before he had shouldered Dot, crutch 
and all, and was walking off with him down the passage. 
‘ Wait for me a few minutes, Esther,’ he whispered ; and I 
betook myself to the window- seat and looked over the dusky 
garden, where the tall white lilies looked like ghostly 
flowers in the gloom. 

It was a long time before Allan rejoined me. ‘ That is a 
curious little body,’ he said, half laughing, as he sat down 
beside me. ‘I had quite a piece of work with him for 
carrying him off in that fashion ; he said I was a savage, a 
great uncivilised man, to take such a mean advantage of 
him ; “ If I were big I would fight you,” he said, doubling 
his fists ; he looked such a miserable little atom of a chap 
as he said it.’ 

‘Was he really angry?’ I asked, for Dot was so seldom 
out of temper. 

‘ Angry, I believe you. He was in a towering rage ; but 
he is all right now, so you need not go to him. I stroked 
him down, and praised him for his good intentions, and 
then I told him I was a doctor now, and no one contradicted 
my orders, and that he must be a good boy and let me 
help him to bed. Poor little fellow ; he sobbed all the time 
he was undressing, he is so fond of father. I am afraid it 


ESTHER. 


24 

will go badly with him if things turn out as I fear they 
will,’ and Allan’s voice was very grave. 

We had a long talk after that, until Uncle Geoffrey came 
upstairs and dislodged us, by carrying Allan off. It was 
such a comfort to have him all to myself ; we had been so 
much separated of late years, 

Allan was five years older than I ; he was only a year 
younger than Fred, but the difference between them was 
very great. Allan looked the elder of the two ; he was not so 
tall as Fred, but he was strongly built and sturdy ; he was 
dark-complexioned, and his features were almost as irregu- 
lar as mine ; but in a man that did not so much matter, 
and very few people called Allan plain. 

Allan had always been my special brother — most sisters 
know what I mean by that term. Allan was undemon- 
strative ; he seldom petted or made much of me, but a 
word from him was worth a hundred from Fred ; and there 
was a quiet unspoken sympathy between us that was 
sufficiently palpable. If Allan wanted his gloves mended 
he always came to me, and not to Carrie. I was his chief 
correspondent, and he made me the confidante of his pro- 
fessional hopes and fears. In return, he good-humouredly 
interested himself in my studies, directed my reading, and 
considered himself at liberty to find fault with everything 
that did not please him. He was a little peremptory some- 
times, but I did not mind that half so much as Fred’s 
sarcasms ; and he never distressed me as Fred did, by 
laughing at my large hands, or wondering why I was not 
so natty in my dress as Carrie. 



I WENT to my room to unpack my things, and by-and-by 
Carrie joined me. 

I half hoped that she meant to help me, but she sat 
down by the window and said, with a sigh, how tired she 
was ; and certainly her eyes had a weary look. 

She watched me for some time in silence, but once or 
twice she sighed very heavily. 

‘ I wish you could leave those things, Esther,’ she said, at 
last, not pettishly — Carrie was never pettish — but a little 
too plaintively. ‘ I have not had a creature to whom I 
could talk since you left home in April.’ 

The implied compliment was very nice, but I did not half 
like leaving my things — I was rather old-maidish in my 
ways, and never liked half measures ; but I remembered 
reading once about ‘ the lust of finishing,’ and what a test 
of unselfishness it was to put by a half-completed task 
cheerfully at the call of another duty. Perhaps it was my 
duty to leave my unpacking and listen to Carrie, but there 
‘was one little point in her speech that did not please me. 

‘You could talk to mother,’ I objected; for mother 
always listened to one so nicely. 

‘ I tried it once, but mother did not understand,’ sighed 
Carrie. I used to wish she did not sigh so much. ‘ We 


26 


ESTHER. 


had quite an argument, but I saw it was no use — that I 
should never bring her to my way of thinking. She was 
brought up so differently : girls were allowed so little liberty 
then. My notions seemed to distress her. She said that I 
was peculiar, and that I carried things too far, and that she 
wished I were more like other girls ; and then she kissed 
me and said I was very good, and she did not mean to hurt 
me ; but she thought home had the first claim ; and so on. 
You know mother’s way.’ 

‘ I think mother was right there — you think so yourself, 
do you not, Carrie ? ’ I asked, anxiously, for this seemed to 
me the A B C of common sense. 

‘ Oh, of course,’ rather hastily. ‘ Charity begins at home, 
but it ought not to stop there. If I chose to waste my time 
practising for Fred’s violin, and attending to all his thou- 
sand and one fads and fancies, what would become of all my 
parish work ? You should have heard Mr. Arnold’s sermon 
last Sunday, Esther ; he spoke of the misery and poverty and 
ignorance that lay around us outside our homes, and of 
the loiterers and idlers within those homes.’ And Carrie’s 
eyes looked sad and serious. 

‘ That is true,’ I returned, and then I stopped, and Jessie’s 
words came to my mind, ‘ Even Carrie makes mistakes at 
times.’ For the first time in my life the thought crossed 
me : in my absence would it not have been better for Carrie 
to have been a little more at home ? It was Jessie’s words 
and mother’s careworn face that put the thought into my 
head ; but the next moment I had dismissed it as heresy. 
My good, unselfish Carrie, it was impossible that she could 
make mistakes ! Carrie’s next speech chimed in well with 
my unspoken thoughts. 

‘ Home duties come first, of course, Esther — no one in 
their senses could deny such a thing ; but we must be on , 
our guard against make-believe duties. It is my duty to 
help mother by teaching Jack, and I give her two hours 
every morning ; but when Fred comes into the schoolroom 
with some nonsensical request that would rob me of an hour 
or so, I am quite right not to give way to him. Do you 


“You know mother’s way.” 



^^4 ' 


DOT, 


29 

think,* warming into enthusiasm over her subject, ‘ that 
Fred’s violin playing ought to stand in the way of any reaj 
work that will benefit souls as well as bodies — that will help 
to reclaim ignorance and teach virtue ? ’ And Carrie’s 
beautiful eyes grew dark and dewy with feeling, I wish 
mother could have seen her ; something in her expression 
reminded me of a picture of Faith I had once seen. 

‘ Oh, Esther,’ she continued, for I was too moved to 
answer her, ‘ every day I live I long to give myself more 
entirely to benefiting my fellow creatures. Girl as I am, 
I mean to join the grand army of workers — that is what 
Mr. Arnold called them. Oh, how I wish I could remember 
all he said ! He told us not to be disheartened by *petty 
difficulties, or to feel lonely because, perhaps, those who 
were our nearest and dearest discouraged our efforts or put 
obstacles in our way. “ You think you are alone,” he said, 
‘‘ when you are one of the rank and file in that glorious bat- 
talion. There are thousands working with you and around 
you, although you cannot see them.” And then he exhorted 
us who were young to enter this crusade.’ 

‘But, Carrie,’ I interrupted, somewhat mournfully, for I 
was tired and a little depressed, ‘ I am afraid our work is 
already cut out for us, and we shall have to do it, however 
little pleased we may be with the pattern. From what 
Uncle Geoffrey tells me, we shall be very poor.’ 

‘ I am not afraid of poverty, Esther.’ 

‘ But still you will be grieved to leave Combe Manor,’ I 
persisted. ‘ Perhaps we shall have to live in a little pokey 
house somewhere, and to go out as governesses.’ 

‘ Perhaps so,’ she answered, serenely ; ‘ but I shall still 
find time for higher duties. I shall be a miser, and treasure 
all my minutes. But I have wasted nearly half-an-hour 
now ; but it is such a luxury to talk to somebody who can 
understand.’ And then she kissed me affectionately and 
bade me hasten to bed, for it was getting late, and I looked 
sadly tired ; but it never entered into her head to help me 
put away the clothes that strewed my room, though I was 
aching in every limb from grief and fatigue. If one looks 


ESTHER. 


30 

up too much at the clouds one stumbles against rough 
stones sometimes. Star-gazing is very sweet and elevating, 
but it is as well sometimes to pick up the homely flowers 
that grow round our feet. ‘What does Carrie mean by 
higher duties ? ’ I grumbled, as I sought wearily to evoke 
order out of chaos. ‘ To work for one’s family is as much 
a duty as visiting the poor.’ I could not solve the problem ; 
Carrie was too vague for me there ; but I went to bed at 
last, and dreamt that we two were building houses on the 
seashore. Carrie’s was the prettier, for it was all of sea- 
weed and bright-coloured shells, that looked as though the 
sun were shining on them, while mine was made of clay, 
tempered by mortar. 

‘Oh, Carrie, I like yours best,’ I cried, disconsolately; 
yet as I spoke a long tidal wave came up and washed the 
frail building away. But though mine filled with foamy 
water, the rough w^alls remained entire, and when I looked 
at it again the receding wave had strewn its floors with 
small shining pearls. 

I must pass over the record of the next few days, for 
they were so sad — so sad, even now I cannot think of them 
without tears. On the second day after my return, dear 
father had another attack, and before many hours were 
over we knew we were orphans. 

Two things stood out most prominently during that 
terrible week : dear mother’s exceeding patience and Dot’s 
despair. Mother gave us little trouble. She lay on her 
couch weeping silently, but no word of complaint or re- 
bellion crossed her lips ; she liked us to sit beside her 
and read her soothing passages of Scripture, and she was 
very thoughtful and full of pity for us all. Her health 
was never very good, and just now her strength had given 
way utterly. Uncle Geoffrey would not hear of her 
exerting herself, and, indeed, she looked so frail and 
broken that even Fred got alarmed about her. 

Carrie was her principal companion, for Dot took all my 
attention ; and, indeed, it nearly broke our hearts to see him. 

Uncle Geoffrey had carried him from the room when 


DOT. 


31 

father’s last attack had come on. Jack was left in charge 
of him, and the rest of us were gathered in the sick room. 
I was the first to leave when all was over, for I thought of 
Dot and trembled ; but as I opened the door there he was, 
crouched down in a little heap at the entrance, with Jack 
sobbing beside him. 

‘ I took away his crutch, but he crawled all the way on 
his hands and knees,’ whispered Jack ; and then Allan 
came out and stood beside me. 

‘ Poor little fellow ! ’ he muttered ; and Dot lifted his 
miserable little white face, and held out his arms. 

‘ Take me in,’ he implored. ‘ Father’s dead, for I heard 
you all crying ; but I must kiss him once more.’ 

‘ I don’t think it will hurt him,’ observed Allan, in a low 
voice. ‘ He will only imagine all sorts of horrors — and he 
looks so peaceful,’ motioning towards the closed door. 

‘ I will be so good,’ implored the poor child, ‘ if you only 
take me in.’ And Allan, unable to resist any longer, lifted 
him in his arms. 

I did not go in, for I could not have borne it. Carrie 
told me afterwards that Allan cried like a child when Dot 
nestled up to the dead face and began kissing and 
stroking it. 

‘ You are my own father, though you look so different,’ 
he whispered. ‘ I wish you were not so cold. I wish you 
could look and speak to me — I am your little boy Dot — 
you were always so fond of Dot, father. Let me go with 
you; I don’t want to live any longer without you,’ and so 
on, until Uncle Geoffrey made Allan take him away. 

Oh, how good Allan was to him ! He lay down by his 
side all night, soothing him and talking to him, for Dot 
never slept. The next day we took turns to be with him, 
and so on day after day ; but I think Dot liked Allan best. 

‘ He is most like father,’ he said once, which, perhaps, 
explained the preference ; but then Allan had so much tact 
and gentleness. Fred did not understand him at all ; he 
called him odd and uncanny, which displeased us both. 

One evening I had been reading to mother, and after- 


ESTHER. 


32 

wards I went up to Dot. He had been very feverish and 
had suffered much all day, and Allan had scarcely left 
him ; but towards evening he had grown quieter. I found 
Jack beside him; they were making up garlands for the 
grave ; it was Dot’s only occupation just now. 

‘ Look here, Essie,’ he cried, eagerly. ‘ Is not this a 
splendid wreath ? We are making it all of pansies — they 
were father’s favourite flowers. He always called them 
floral butterflies. Fancy a wreath of butterflies ! ’ and 
Dot gave a weak little laugh. It was a very ghost of a 
laugh, but it was his first, and I hailed it joyfully. I 
praised the quaint stiff wreath. In its way it was 
picturesque. The rich hues of the pansies blended well — 
violet and gold : it was a pretty idea, laying heartsease on 
the breast that would never know anxiety again. 

‘When I get better,’ continued Dot, ‘I am going to 
make such a beautiful little garden by dear father. Jack 
and I have been planning it. We are going to have rose- 
trees and lilies of the valley and sweet peas — father was so 
fond of sweet peas ; and in the spring snowdrops and 
crocuses and violets. Allan says I may do it.’ 

‘Yes, surely. Dot.’ 

‘ I wonder what father is doing now ? ’ he exclaimed, 
suddenly, putting by the unfinished wreath a little wearily. 
‘ I think the worst of people dying is that we cannot find 
out what they are doing,’ and his eyes grew large and 
wistful. Alas ! Dot, herein lies the sting of death — silence 
so insupportable and unbroken ! 

‘ Shall I read you your favourite chapter ? ’ I asked, 
softly ; for every day Dot made us read to him the descrip- 
tion of that City with its golden streets and gem-built 
walls ; but he shook his head. 

‘It glitters too much for my head to-night,’ he said, 
quaintly; ‘ it is too bright and shining. I would rather 
think of dear father walking in those green pastures, with 
all the good people who have died. It must be very 
beautiful there, Esther. But I think father would be 
happier if I were with him.’ 


DOT, 


33 

‘ Oh, Dot, no ! ’ for the bare idea pained me ; and I felt 
I must argue this notion away. ‘ Allan and I could not 
spare you, or mother either ; and there’s Jack — what 
would poor Jack do without her playfellow?’ 

‘I don’t feel 1 shall ever play again,’ said Dot, leaning 
his chin on his mites of hands and peering at us in his 
shrewd way. ‘ Jack is a girl, and she cannot understand ; 
but when one is only a Dot, and has an ugly crutch and a 
back that never leaves off aching, and a father that has 
gone to heaven, one does not care to be left behind.’ 

‘ But you are not thinking of us. Dot, and how unhappy 
it would make us to lose you too,’ I returned. And now 
the tears would come one by one; Dot saw them, and 
wiped them off with his sleeve. 

‘ Don’t be silly, Esther,’ he said, in a coaxing little voice. 
‘ I am not going yet. Allan says I may live to be a man. 
He said so last night ; and then he told me he was afraid 
we should be very poor ; and that made me sorry, for 
I knew I should never be able to work, with my poor 
ba *k.’ 

‘ But Allan and I will work for you, my darling,’ I ex- 
claimed, throwing my arms round him ; ‘ only you must 
not leave us. Dot, even for father ; ’ and as I said this I 
began to sob bitterly. I was terribly ashamed of myself 
when Allan came in and discovered me in the act ; and 
there was Jack keeping me company, and frowning away 
her tears dreadfully. 

I thought Allan would have scolded us all round ; but 
no, he did nothing of the kind. He patted Jack’s w^et 
cheeks and laughed at the hole in her handkerchief ; and 
he then seated himself on the bed, and asked me very 
gently what was the matter with us all. Dot was spokes- 
man : he stated the facts of the case rather lugubriously 
and in a slightly injured voice. 

‘Esther is crying because she is selfish, and I am afraid 
I am -^selfish too.’ 

‘ Most likely,’ returned Allan, drily ; ‘ it is a human 
failing. What is the case in point, Frankie ?* 

D 


34 


ESTHER, 


Allan was the only one of us who ever called Dot by his 
proper name. 

‘ I should not mind growing up to be a man/ replied 
Dot, fencing a little, ‘ if I were big and strong like you,’ 
taking hold of the huge sinewy hand. ‘ I could work then 
for mother and the girls; but now you will be always 
obliged to take care of me, and so — and so — ’ and here 
Dot’s lips quivered a little, ‘ I would rather go with dear 
father, if Esther would not cry about it so.’ 

‘ No, no, you must stay with us. Sonny,’ returned Allan, 
cheerily. ‘Esther and I are not going to give you up so 
easily. Why, look here, Frankie ; I will tell you a secret. 
One of these days I mean to have a nice little house of my 
own, and Esther and you shall come and live with me, 
and I will go among my patients all the morning, and in 
the evening I shall come home very lazy and tired, and 
Esther shall fetch me my slippers and light the lamp, and 
I shall get my books, and you will have your drawing, and 
Esther will mend our clothes, and we shall be as cosy as 
possible.’ 

‘Yes, yes,’ exclaimed Dot, clapping his hands. The 
snug picture had fascinated his childish fancy; Allan’s 
fireside had obscured the lights of Paradise. From this 
time this imaginary home of Allan’s became his favourite 
castle in the air. When we were together he would often 
talk of it as though it were reality. We had planted the 
garden and furnished the parlour a dozen times over 
before the year was out ; and so strong is a settled 
imagination that I am almost sure Dot believed that some- 
where there existed the little white cottage with the porch 
covered wdth honeysuckle, and the low bay-window with 
the great pots of flowering plants, beside which Dot’s couch 
was to stand. 

I don’t think Jack enjoyed these talks so much as Dot 
and I did, as we made no room for her in our castle- 
building. 

‘ You must not live with us. Jack,’ Dot would say, very 
gravely; ‘you are only a girl, and we don’t want girls’ 


DOT. 


35 

- — (what was I, I wonder?) — ‘but you shall come and see 
us once a week, and Esther will give you brown bread 
and honey out of our beehives ; ’ for we had arranged there 
must be a row of beehives under a southern wall where 
peaches were to grow ; and as for white lilies, we were to 
have dozens of them. Dear, dear, how harmless all these 
fancies were, and yet they kept us cheerful and warded off 
many an hour of depression from pain when Dot’s back 
was bad. I remember one more thing that Allan said 
that night, when we were all better and more cheerful, for 
it was rather a grave speech for a young man ; but then 
Allan had these fits of gravity. 

‘ Never mind thinking if you will grow up to be a man, 
Dot. Wishing won’t help us to die an hour sooner, and 
the longest life must have an end some day. What we 
have to do is to take up our life and do the best we can 
with it while it lasts, and to be kind and patient, and help 
one another. Most likely Esther and I will have to work 
hard enough all our lives — we shall work, and you may 
have to suffer ; but we cannot do without you any more 
than you can do without us. There, Erankie I ' 



T he day after the funeral Uncle 
Geoffrey held a family council, 
at which we w^ere all present, 
except mother and Dot ; he preferred 
talking to her alone afterwards. 

Oh, what changes ! what incredible changes ! We must 
leave Combe Manor at once. With the exception of a few 
hundred pounds that had been mother’s portion, the only 
dowry that her good old father, a naval captain, had been 
able 1*3 give her, we were literally penniless. The boys w^ere 
not able to help us much. Allan was only a house-surgeon 
in one of the London hospitals ; and Fred, who called him- 
self an artist, had never earned a penny. He was a fair 
copyist, and talked the ordinary art jargon, and went about 
all day in his brown velveteen coat, and wore his hair 
rather long ; but we never saw much results from his Eoman 
studies ; latterly he had somewhat neglected his painting, 
and had taken to violin playing and musical composition. 
Uncle Geoffrey used to shake his head and say he was 
‘ Jack of all trades and master of none,’ which was not far 
m from the mark. There was a great deal of talk between the 
P three, before anything was settled. Fred was terribly 
( t aggravating to Uncle Geoffrey, I could see ; but then he was 
^ \so miserable, poor fellow; he would not look at things in 
'ir proper light, and he had a way with him as though 

^ ^ thought Uncle Geoffrey was putting upon him. The 


HAPTEFl lY. 

Uncle Oeoffreg. 


UNCLE GEOFFREY, 


37 

discussion grew very warm at last, for Allan sided with 
Uncle Geoffrey, and then Fred said every one was against 
him. It struck me Uncle Geoffrey pooh-poohed Fred’s 
whim of being an artist ; he wanted him to go into an 
office ; there was a vacant berth he could secure by speak- 
ing to an old friend of his, who was in a China tea house, 
a most respectable money-making firm, and Fred would 
have a salary at once, with good prospects of rising ; but 
Fred passionately scouted the notion. He would rather 
enlist ; he would drown, or hang himself sooner. There 
were no end of naughty things he said ; only Carrie cried 
and begged him not to be so wicked, and that checked him. 

Uncle Geoffrey lost his patience at last, and very nearly told 
him he was an idiot, to his face ; but Fred looked so hand- 
some and miserable, that he relented ; and at last it was 
arranged that Fred was to take a hundred pounds of 
mother’s money — she would have given him the whole if 
she could, poor dear — and take cheap rooms in London, 
and try how he could get on by teaching drawing and 
taking copying orders. 

‘ Eemember, Fred,’ continued Uncle Geoffrey, rather 
sternly, ‘ you are taking a sixth part of your mother’s 
entire income ; all that she has for herself and these girls ; 
if you squander it rashly, you will be robbing the widow 
and the fatherless. You have scouted my well-meant 
advice, and Allan’s ’ — he went on — ‘ and are marking out 
your own path in life very foolishly, as we think ; re- 
member, you have only yourself to blame, if you make 
that life a failure. Artists are of the same stuff as other 
men, and ought to be sober, steady, and persevering ; 
without patience and effort you cannot succeed.’ 

‘ When my picture is accepted by the hanging committee, 
you and Allan will repent your sneers,’ answered Fred, 
bitterly. 

‘ We do not sneer, my boy,’ returned Uncle Geoffrey, 
more mildly — for he remembered Fred’s father had only 
been dead a week — ‘ we are only doubtful of the wisdom of 
your choice ; but there, work hard at your daubs, and keep 


ESTHER. 


38 

out of debt and bad company, and you may yet triumph 
over your cranky old uncle.’ And so the matter was 
amicably settled. 

Allan’s arrangements were far more simple. He was to 
leave the hospital in another year, and become Uncle Geof- 
frey’s assistant, with a view to partnership. It was not 
quite Allan’s taste, a practice in a sleepy country town ; 
but, as he remarked rather curtly, ‘ beggars must not be 
choosers,’ and he would as soon work under Uncle Geoffrey 
as any other man. I think Allan was rather ambitious 
in his secret views. He wanted to remain longer at the 
hospital and get into a London practice ; he would have 
liked to have b^een higher up the tree than Uncle Geoffrey, 
who was quite content with his quiet position at Milnthorpe. 
But the most astonishing part of the domestic programme 
w^as, that we were all going to live with Uncle Geoffrey. I 
could scarcely believe my ears when I heard it, and Carrie 
was just as surprised. Could any of us credit such unselfish 
generosity ? He had not prepared us for it in the least. 

‘ Now, girls, you must just pack up your things, you, 
and the mother, and Dot ; of course w^e must take Dot, and 
you must manage to shake yourselves down in the old 
house at Milnthorpe ’ — that is how he put it ; ‘it is not so 
big as Combe Manor, and I daresay we shall be rather a 
tight fit when Allan comes ; but the more the merrier, eh, 
Jack ? ’ 

‘ Oh, Uncle Geoff, do you mean it ? ’ gasped Jack, grow- 
ing scarlet ; but Carrie and I could not speak for surprise. 

‘ Mean it ! Of course. What is the good of being a 
bachelor uncle, if one is not to be tyrannised over by an 
army of nephews and nieces ? Do you think the plan will 
answer, Esther ? ’ he said, rather more seriously. 

‘ If you and Deborah do not mind it. Uncle Geoffrey, I 
am sure it ought to answer ; but we shall crowd you, and 
put you and Deborah to sad inconvenience, I am afraid ; ’ 
for I was half afraid of Deborah, who had lived with Uncle 
Geoffrey for five and twenty years, and was used to her 
own ways, and not over fond of young people. 


UNCLE GEOFFREY, 


39 

* I shall not ask Deb’s opinion,’ he answered, rather 
roguishly ; ‘ we must smooth her down afterwards, eh, 
girls ? Seriously, Allan, I think it is the best plan under 
the circumstances. I am not fond of being alone,’ and 
here Uncle Geoffrey gave a quick sigh. Poor Uncle Geoff! 
he had never meant to be an old bachelor, only She died 
while he was furnishing the old house at Milnthorpe, and 
he never could fix his mind on any one else. 

‘I like young folks about me,* he continued, cheerfully. 
* When I get old and rheumatic, I can keep Dot company, 
and Jack can wait on us both. Of course I am not a rich 
man, children, and we must all help to keep the kettle 
boiling ; but the house is my own, and you can all shelter 
in it if you like ; it will save house-rent and taxes, at any 
rate for the present.’ 

‘ Carrie and I will work,’ I replied, eagerly ; for, though 
Uncle Geoffrey was not a poor man, he was very far from 
being rich, and he could not possibly afford to keep us all. 
A third of his income went to poor Aunt Prue, who had 
married foolishly, and was now a widow with a large 
family. 

Aunt Prue would have been penniless, only father and 
Uncle Geoff agreed to allow her a fixed maintenance. As 
Uncle Geoff explained to us afterwards, she would now lose 
half her income. 

^ There are eight children, and two or three of them are 
very delicate, and take after their father. I have been 
thinking about it all, Esther,’ he said, when Allan and I 
were alone with him, ‘ and I have made up my mind that I 
must allow her another hundred a year. Poor soul, she 
works hard at that school-keeping of hers, and none of the 
children are old enough to help her except Lawrence, and 
he is going into a decline, the doctors say. I am afraid we 
shall have to pinch a bit, unless you and Carrie get some 
teaching.’ 

‘Oh, Uncle Geoff, of course we shall work; and Jack, 
too, when she is old enough.’ Could he think we should 
be a burden on him, when we were all young and strong ? 


40 


ESTHER, 


I had forgotten poor Aunt Prue, who lived a long way 
off, and whom we saw but seldom. She was a pretty, 
subdued little woman, who always wore shabby black 
gowns ; I never saw her in a good dress in my life. Well, we 
were as poor as Aunt Prue now, and I wondered if we 
should make such a gallant fight against misfortune as 
she did. 

We arranged matters after that — Allan and Uncle Geoff 
and I ; for Carrie had gone to sit with mother, and Fred 
had strolled off somewhere. They wanted me to try my 
hand at housekeeping ; at least, until mother was stronger 
and more able to bear things. 

‘ Carrie hates it, and you have a good head for accounts,* 
Allan observed, quietly. It seemed rather strange that 
they should make me take the head, when Carrie was two 
years older, and a week ago I was only a school-girl ; but I 
felt they were right, for I liked planning and contriving, 
and Carrie detested anything she called domestic drudgery. 

We considered ways and means after that. Uncle Geof- 
frey told us the exact amount of his income. He had 
always lived very comfortably, but, when he had deducted 
the extra allowance for poor Aunt Prue, we saw clearly 
that there was not enough for so large a party ; but at 
the first hint of this from Allan Uncle Geoffrey got quite 
warm and eager. Dear, generous Uncle Geoff! he was 
determined to share his last crust with his dead brother’s 
widow and children. 

‘ Nonsense, fiddlesticks ! ’ he kept on saying ; ‘ what do I 
want with luxuries ? Ask Deborah if I care what I eat and 
drink ; we shall do very well, if you and Esther are not so 
faint-hearted.’ And when we found out how our protests 
seemed to hurt him, we let him have his own way ; only 
Allan and I exchanged looks, which said as plainly as looks 
could, ‘ Is he not the best uncle that ever lived, and will 
we not work our hardest to help him ? ’ 

I had a long talk with Carrie that night ; she was very 
submissive and very sad, and seemed rather downhearted 
over things. She was quite as .grateful for Uncle Geoff’s 


UNCLE GEOFFREY. 


4X 

generosity as we were, but I could see the notion of being a 
governess distressed her greatly. ‘ I am very glad you will 
undertake the housekeeping, Esther,’ she said, rather plain- 
tively ; ‘ it will leave me free for other things,’ and then she 
sighed very bitterly, and got up and left me, I was a little 
sorry that she did not tell me all that was in her mind, for, 
if we are ‘to bear each other’s burdens,’ it is necessary to 
break down the reserve that keeps us out of even a sister’s 
heart sometimes. 

But though Carrie left me to my own thoughts, I was not 
able to quiet myself for hours. If I had only Jessie to whom 
I could talk ! — and then it seemed to me as though it were 
months since we sat together in the garden of Kedmayne 
House talking out our girlish philosophy. 

Only a fortnight ago, and yet how much had happened 
since then ! What a revolution in our home-world ! Dear 
father lying in his quiet grave ; ourselves penniless orphans, 
obliged to leave Combe Manor, and indebted to our generous 
benefactor for the very roof that was to cover us and the 
food that we were to eat. 

Ah, well ! I was only a school-girl, barely seventeen. 
No wonder I shrank back a little appalled from the respon- 
sibilities that awaited me. I was to be Uncle Geoff’s house- 
keeper, his trusted right-hand and referee. I was to 
manage that formidable Deborah, and the stolid, broad- 
faced Martha ; and there was mother so broken in health 
and spirits, and Dot, and Jack, with her hoidenish ways 
and torn frocks, and Allan miles away from me, and Carrie 
— well, I felt half afraid of Carrie to-night ; she seemed 
meditating great things when I wanted her to compass daily 
duties. I hoped she would volunteer to go on with Jack’s 
lessons and help with the mending, and I wondered with 

">’e forebodings what things she was planning for which I 
S leave her free. 

'^e things tired me, and I sat rather dismally in the 
m. 'oking out at the closed white lilies and the 

swayx. nches of the limes, until a text suddenly flashed 

into my . und, ‘ As thy day, so shall thy strength be.’ I 


ESTHER, 


42 

lit my candle and opened my Bible, that I might read over 
the words for myself. Yes, there they were shining before 
my eyes, like ‘ apples of gold in pictures of silver,’ refresh- 
ing and comforting my worn-out spirits. Strength promised 
for the day, but not beforehand ; supplies of heavenly 
manna, not to be hoarded or put by ; the daily measure, 
daily gathered. 

An old verse of Bishop Ken’s came to my mind. Very 
quaint and rich in wisdom it was — 

‘Does each day upon its wing 
Its appointed burden bring ? 

Load it not besides with sorrow 
That belongeth to the morrow. 

When by God the heart is riven, 

Strength is promised, strength is given s 
But fore date the day of woe, 

And alone thou bear’st the blow.* 


When I had said this over to myself, I laid my head on the 
pillow and slept soundly. 

Mother and I had a nice little talk the next day. It was 
arranged that I w^as to go over to Milnthorpe with Uncle 
Geoffrey, who was obliged to return home somewhat hastily, 
in order to talk to Deborah and see what furniture would 
be required for the rooms that were placed at our disposal. 
As I was somewhat aghast at the amount of business 
entrusted to my inexperienced hands, Allan volunteered to 
help me, as Carrie could not be spared. We were to stay 
two or three days, make all the arrangements that were 
necessary, and then come back and prepare for the flitting. 
If Allan were beside me, I felt that I could accomplish 
wonders ; nevertheless, I carried rather a harassed face 
into dear mother’s dressing-room that morning. 

‘ Oh, Esther, how pale and tired you look! ’ were her first 
words as I came towards her couch. ‘ Poor child, we are 
making you a woman before your time ! ’ and her eyes filled 
with tears. 

‘ l am seventeen,’ I returned, with an odd little choke in 
my voice, for I could have cried with her readily at that 


UNCLE GEOFFREY, 


43 

moment. ‘ That is quite a great age, mother ; I feel 
terribly old, I assure you.' 

‘ You are our dear, unselfish Esther,' she returned, lov- 
ingly. Dear soul, she always thought the best of us all, 
and my heart swelled how proudly, and oh ! how grate- 
fully, when she told me in her sweet gentle way what a 
comfort I was to her. 

‘ You are so reliable, Esther,' she went on, ‘ that w^e all 
look to you as though you were older. You must be Uncle 
Geoffrey’s favourite, I think, from the way he talks about 
you. Carrie is very sweet and good too, but she is not so 
practical.' 

‘ Oh, mother, she is ever so much better than I! ' I cried, 
for I could not bear the least disparagement of my darling 
Carrie. ‘ Think how pretty she is, and how little she 
cares for dress and admiration. If I were like that,’ I 
added, fiushing a little over my words, ‘ I’m afraid I should 
be terribly vain.’ 

Mother smiled a little at that. 

‘ Be thankful then that you are saved that temptation.’ 
And then she stroked my hot cheek and went on softly : 
‘ Don’t think so much about your looks, child ; plain women 
are just as vain as pretty ones. Not that you are plain, 
Esther, in my eyes, or in the eyes of any one who loves you.’ 
But even that did not quite comfort me, for in my secret 
heart my want of beauty troubled me sadly. There, I have 
owned the worst of myself — it is out now. 

We talked for a long time after that about the new life 
that lay before us, and again I marvelled at mother’s 
patience and submission ; but when I told her so she only 
hid her face and wept. 

‘ What does it matter ? ’ she said, at last, when she had 
recovered herself a little. ‘ No home can be quite a home 
to me now without him. If I could live within sight of his 
grave, I should be thankful ; but Combe Manor and Miln- 
thorpe are the same to me now.’ And though these words 
struck me as strange at first', I understood afterwards ; for 
in the void and waste of her widowed life no outer 


ESTHER. 


44 

change of circumstances seemed to disturb her, except for 
our sakes and for us. 

She seemed to feel Uncle Geoffrey’s kindness as a sort of 
stay and source of endless comfort. ‘ Such goodness — such 
unselfishness ! ’ she kept murmuring to herself ; and then 
she wanted to hear all that Allan and I proposed. 

‘ How I wish I could get strong and help you,’ she said, 
wistfully, when I had finished. ‘ With all that teaching 
and housekeeping, I am afraid you will overtax your 
strength.’ 

‘ Oh, no, Carrie will help me,’ I returned, dbnfidently. 
‘ Uncle Geoffrey is going to speak to some of his patients 
about us. He rather thinks those Thornes who live op- 
posite to him want a governess.’ 

‘ That will be nice and handy, and save you a walk,’ she 
returned, brightening up at the notion that one of us would 
be so near her ; but though I would not have hinted at 
such a thing, I should rather have enjoyed the daily walk. 
I was fond of fresh air, and exercise, and rushing about, 
after the manner of girls, and it seemed rather tame and 
monotonous just to cross the street to one's work ; but I 
remembered Allan’s favourite speech, ‘ Beggars must not 
be choosers,’ and held my peace. 

On the whole, I felt somewhat comforted by my talk 
with mother. If she and Uncle Geoffrey thought so well 
of me, I must try and live up to their good opinion. There 
is nothing so good as to fix a high standard for oneself. 
True, we may never reach it, never satisfy ourselves, 
but the continued effort strengthens and elevates us. 

I went into Carrie’s room to tell her about the Thornes, 
and lay our plans together, but she was reading Thomas a 
Kempis, and did not seem inclined to be disturbed, so I 
retreated somewhat discomforted. 

But I forgot my disappointment a moment afterwards, 
when I went into the schoolroom and found Dot fractious 
and weary, and Jack vainly trying to amuse him. Allan 
was busy, and the two children had passed a solitary 
morning. 


UNCLE GEOFFREY. 


45 

‘ Dot wanted Carrie to read to him, but she said she was 
too tired, and I could do it,* grumbled Jack, discon- 
solately. 

‘ I don’t like Jack’s reading ; it is too jerky, and her 
voice is so loud,’ returned Dot ; but his countenance 
smoothed when I got the book and read to him, and soon 
he fell into a sound sleep. 



T he following afternoon Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I 
started for Milnthorpe. Youthful grief is addicted to 
restlessness — it is only the old who can sit so silently 
and weep; it was perfectly natural, then, that I should 
hail a few days’ change with feelings of relief. 

It was rather late in the evening when we arrived. As 
we drove through the market-place there was the usual 
group of idlers loitering on the steps of the Bed Lion, who 
stared at us lazily as we passed. Milnthorpe vras an odd, 
primitive little place — the sunniest and sleepiest of country 
towns. It had a steep, straggling High-street, which 
ended in a wide, deserted-looking square, which rather 
reminded one of the Place in some Continental town. The 
weekly markets were held here, on which occasion the large 
white portico of the Bed Lion was never empty. Miln- 
thorj^e woke with brief spasms of life on Monday morning ; 
broad-shouldered men jostled each other on the grass- 
grown pavements ; large country wagons, sweet-smelling 
in haymaking seasons, blocked up the central spaces ; 
country women, with gay-coloured handkerchiefs, sold eggs, 
and butter, and poultry in the square ; and two or three 
farmers, with their dogs at their heels, lingered under the 
windows of the Bed Lion, fingering the samples in their 
pockets, and exchanging dismal prognostications concern- 


THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE. 47 

ing the crops and the weather. One side of the square was 
occupied by St. Barnabas, with its pretty shaded church- 
yard and old grey vicarage. On the opposite side was the 
handsome red brick house occupied by Mr. Lucas, the 
banker, and two or three other houses, more or less pre- 
tentious, inhabited by the gentry of Milnthorpe. 

Uncle Geoffrey lived at the lower end of the High-street. 
It was a tall, narrow house, with old-fashioned windows 
and wire blinds. These blinds, which were my detestation, 
were absolutely necessary, as the street door opened directly 
on the street. There was one smooth, long step, and that 
was all. It had rather a dull outside look, but the moment 
one entered the narrow wainscoted hall, there was a cheery 
vista of green lawn and neatly-gravelled paths through the 
glass door. 

The garden was the delight of Uncle Geoffrey’s heart. 
It was somewhat narrow, to match the house ; but in the 
centre of the lawn there was a glorious mulberry tree, the 
joy of us children. Behind was a wonderful intricacy of 
slim, oddly-shaped flower-beds, intersected by miniature 
walks, where two people could with difficulty walk abreast ; 
and beyond this lay a tolerable kitchen garden, where 
Deborah grew cabbages and all sorts of homely herbs, and 
where tiny pink roses and sturdy sweet-williams blossomed 
among the gooseberry bushes. 

On one side of the house were two roomy parlours, 
divided by folding doors. We never called them anything 
but parlours, for the shabby wainscoted walls and old- 
fashioned furniture forbade any similitude to the modern 
drawing-room. 

On the other side of the hall was Uncle Geoffrey’s study 
— a somewhat grim, dingy apartment, with brown shelves 
full of ponderous tomes, a pipe-rack filled with fantastic 
pipes, deep old cupboards full of heterogeneous rubbish, and 
wide easy-chairs that one could hardly lift, one of which 
was always occupied by Jumbles, Uncle Geoffrey’s dog. 

Jumbles was a great favourite with us all. He was a 
solemn, wise-looking dog of the terrier breed, indeed, I 


ESTHER. 


48 

believe Uncle Geoff called him a Dandy Dinmont — blue- 
grey in colour, with a great head, and deep-set intelligent 
eyes. It was Uncle Geoffrey’s opinion that Jumbles under- 
stood all one said to hinv would sit with his head 
slightly on one side, thumping his tail against the floor, 
with a sort of glimmer of fun in his eyes, as though he 
comprehended our conversation, and interposed a ‘ Hear, 
hear ! ’ and when he had had enough of it, and we were 
growing prosy, he would turn over on his back with an 
expression of abject weariness, as though canine reticence 
objected to human garrulity. 

Jumbles was a rare old philosopher — a sort of four-footed 
Diogenes. He was discerning in his friendships, some- 
what aggressive and splenetic to his equals ; intolerant of 
cats, whom he hunted like vermin, and rather disdainfully 
condescending to the small dogs of Milnthorpe. Jumbles 
always accompanied Uncle Geoffrey in his rounds. He 
used to take his place in the gig with undeviating punctu- 
ality ; nothing induced him to desert his post when the 
night-bell rang. He would rouse up from his sleep, and 
go out in the coldest weather. We used to hear his deep 
bark under the window as they sallied out in the midnight 
gloom. 

The morning after we arrived, Allan and I made a tour 
of inspection through the house. There were only three 
rooms on the first floor — Uncle Geoffrey’s, with its huge four- 
post bed ; a large front room, that we both decided would 
just do for mother ; and a smaller one at the back, that, 
after a few minutes’ deliberation, I allotted to Carrie. 

It caused me an envious pang or two before I yielded it, 
for I knew I must share a large upper room with Jack ; the 
little room behind it must be for Dot, and the larger one 
would by-and-by be Allan’s. I confess my heart sank a 
little when I thought of Jack’s noisiness and thriftless 
ways ; but when I remembered how fond she was of good 
books, and the great red-leaved diary that lay on her little 
table, I thought it better that Carrie should have a quiet 
corner to herself, and then she would be near mother. 


THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE. 49 

If only Jack could be taught to hold her tongue some- 
times, and keep her drawers in order, instead of strewing 
her room with muddy boots and odd items of attire ! Well, 
perhaps it might be my mission to train Jack to ^ more 
orderly habits. I would set her a good example, and coax 
her to follow it. She was good-tempered and affectionate, 
and perhaps I should find her sufficiently pliable. I was so 
lost in these anxious thoughts that Allan had left me un- 
perceived. I found him in the back parlour, seated on the 
table, and looking about him rather gloomily. 

‘ I say, Esther ! ’ he called out, as soon as he caught 
sight of me, ‘ I am afraid mother and Carrie will find this 
rather shabby after the dear old rooms at Combe Manor. 
Could we not furbish it up a little ? ’ And Allan looked 
discontentedly at the ugly curtains and little, straight horse- 
hair sofa. Everything had grown rather shabby, only 
Uncle Geoffrey had not found it out. 

‘ Oh, of course ! ’ I exclaimed, joyfully, for all sorts of 
brilliant thoughts had come to me while I tossed rather 
wakefully in the early morning hours. ‘ Don’t you know, 
Allan, that Uncle Geoffrey has decided to send mother and 
Carrie and Dot down to the sea for a week, w^hile you and I 
and Jack make things comfortable for them ? Now, why 
should we not help ourselves to the best of the furniture at 
Combe Manor, and make Uncle Geoff turn out all these 
ugly things ? We might have our pretty carpet from the 
drawing-room, and the curtains, and mother’s couch, and 
some of the easy chairs, and the dear little carved cabinet 
with our purple china ; it need not all be sold when we want 
it so badly for mother.’ 

Allan was so delighted at the idea that we propounded 
our views to Uncle Geoffrey at dinner-time ; but he did not 
see the thing quite in our light. 

^ Of course you will need furniture for the bedrooms,’ he 
returned, rather dubiously ; ‘ but I wanted to sell the rest 
of the things that were not absolutely needed, and invest 
the money.’ 

But this sensible view of the matter did not please me or 

E 


ESTHER. 


50 

Allan. We had a long argument, which ended in a com- 
promise — the question of carpets might rest. Uncle 
Geoffrey’s was a good Brussels, although it was dingy ; but 
I might retain, if I liked, the pretty striped curtains from 
our drawing-room at Combe Manor, and mother’s couch, 
and a few of the easy chairs, and the little cabinet with the 
purple china; and then there was mother’s inlaid work- 
table, and Carrie’s davenport, and books belonging to both 
of us, and a little gilt clock that father had given mother 
on their last wedding-day — all these things would make an 
entire renovation in the shabby parlours. 

I was quite excited by all these arrangements ; but an 
interview with Deborah soon cooled my ardour. 

Allan and Jumbles had gone out with Uncle Geoffrey, 
and I was sitting at the window looking over the lawn and 
the mulberry tree, when a sudden tap at the door startled 
me from my reverie. Of course it was Deborah ; no one 
else’s knuckles sounded as though they were iron. Deborah 
was a tall, angular woman, very spare and erect of figure, 
with a severe cast of countenance, and heavy black curls 
pinned up under her net cap ; her print dresses were 
always starched until they crackled, and on Sunday her 
black silk dress rustled as I never heard any silk dress 
rustle before. 

‘ Yes, Deborah, what is it ? ’ I asked, half- frightened ; 
for surely my hour had come. Deborah was standing so 
very erect, with the basket of keys in her hands, and her 
mouth drawn down at the corners. 

‘ Master said this morning,’ began Deborah, grimly, ‘ as 
how there was a new family coming to live here, and that 
I was to go to Miss Esther for orders. Five-and-twenty 
years have I cooked master’s dinners for him, and received 
his orders, and never had a word of complaint from his 
lips, and now he is putting a mistress over me and 
Martha.’ 

‘ Oh, Deborah,’ I faltered, and then I came to a full stop ; 
for was it not trying to a woman of her age and disposi- 
tion, used to Uncle Geoffrey’s bachelor ways, to have a 


THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE. 51 

houseful of young people turned on her hands ? She and 
Martha would have to work harder, and they were both 
getting old. I felt so much for her that the tears came into 
my eyes, and my voice trembled. 

‘ It is hard ! ’ I burst out ; ‘ it is very hard for you and 
Martha to have your quiet life disturbed. But how could 
we help coming here, when we had no home and no money, 
and Uncle Geoffrey was so generous ? And then there was 
Dot and mother so ailing.* And at the thought of all our 
helplessness, and Uncle Geoffrey’s goodness, a great tear 
rolled down my cheek. It was very babyish and undigni- 
fied ; but, after all, no assumption of womanliness would 
have helped me so much. Deborah’s grim mouth relaxed ; 
under her severe exterior, and with her sharp tongue, there 
beat a very kind heart, and Dot was her weak point. 

‘Well, well, crying won’t help the pot to boil. Miss 
Esther ! ’ she said, brusquely enough ; but I could see she 
was coming round. ‘ Master was always that kind-hearted 
that he would have sheltered the whole parish if he could. 
I am not blaming him, though it goes hard with Martha 
and me, who have led peaceable, orderly lives, and never 
had a mistress, or thought of one, since Miss Blake died, 
and the master took up thoughts of single blessedness in 
earnest.’ 

‘ What sort of woman was Miss Blake ? ’ I asked, eagerly, 
forgetting my few troubled tears at the thought of Uncle 
Geoffrey’s one romance. The romance of middle-aged 
people always came with a faint, far-away odour to us 
young ones, like some old garment laid up in rose-leaves 
or lavender, which must needs be of quaint fashion and 
material, but doubtless precious in the eyes of the wearer. 

‘ Woman ! ’ returned Deborah, with an angry snort ; 
‘ she was a lady, if there ever was one. We don’t see her 
sort every day, I can tell you that. Miss Esther ; a pretty- 
spoken, dainty creature, with long fair curls, that one longed 
to twine round one’s fingers.’ 

‘ She was pretty, then ? ’ I hazarded, more timidly. 

‘ Pretty ! she was downright beautiful. Miss Carrie 


ESTHER. 


52 

reminds me of her sometimes, but she is not near so hand- 
some as poor Miss Kose. She used to come here sometimes 
with her mother, and she and Master would sit under that 
mulberry tree. I can see her now walking over the grass 
in her white gown, with some apple blossoms in her hand, 
talking and laughing with him. It was a sad day when she 
lay in the fever, and did not know him, for all his calling to 
her, “Rose ! Rose ! ” I was with her when she died, and 
I thought he would never hold up his head again.’ 

‘ Poor Uncle Geoffrey ! But he is cheerful and contented 
now.’ 

‘But there, I must not stand gossiping,’ continued 
Deborah, interrupting herself. ‘ I have only brought you 
the keys, and wish to know what preserve you and Mr. 
Allan might favour for tea.’ 

But here I caught hold, not of the key-basket, but of the 
hard, work-worn hand that held it. 

‘ Oh, Deborah ! do be good to us ! ’ I broke out ; ‘ we 
will trouble you and Martha as little as possible, and we 
are all going to put our shoulders to the wheel and help 
ourselves ; and we have no home but this, and no one to 
take care of us but Uncle Geoffrey.’ 

‘ I don’t know but I will make some girdle cakes for tea,’ 
returned Deborah, in the most imperturbable voice ; and 
she turned herself round abruptly, and walked out of the 
room without another word. But I was quite well satisfied 
and triumphant. When Deborah baked girdle cakes, she 
meant the warmest of welcomes, and no end of honour to 
Uncle Geoffrey’s guests. 

‘ Humph ! girdle cakes ! ’ observed Uncle Geoffrey, with 
a smile, as he regarded them. ‘Deb is in a first-rate 
humour, then. You have played your cards well, old lady,’ 
and his eyes tmnkled merrily. 

I went into the kitchen after tea, and had another long 
talk with Deborah. Dear old kitchen ! How many happy 
hours we children had spent in it ! It was very low and 
dark, and its two windows looked out on the stable-yard ; 
but in the evening, when the fire burnt clear and the blinds 


THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE, 


53 

were drawn, it was a pleasant place. Deborah and Martha 
used to sit in the brown Windsor chairs knitting, with Puff, 
the great tabby cat, beside them, and the firelight would 
play on the red brick floor and snug crimson curtains. 

Deborah and I had a grand talk that night. She was a 
trifle obstinate and dogmatical, but we got on fairly well. 
To do her justice, her chief care seemed to be that her 
master should not be interfered with in any of his ways. ‘He 
will work harder than ever,’ she groaned, ‘ now there are 
all these mouths to feed. He and Jumbles will be fairly 
worn out.’ 

But our talk contented me. I had enlisted Deborah’s 
sympathies on our side. I felt the battle was over. I 
was only a ‘ bit thing,’ as Deborah herself called me, and 
I was tolerably tired when I went up to my room that 
night. 

Not that I felt inclined for sleep. Oh dear no! I just 
dragged the big easy chair to the window, and sat there 
listening to the patter of summer rain on the leaves. 

It was very dark, for the moon had hidden her face ; but 
through the cool dampness there crept a delicious fragrance 
of wet jasmine and lilies. I wanted to have a good ‘ think ; ’ 
not to sit down and take myself to pieces. Oh no, that 
was Carrie’s way. Such introspection bored me and did 
me little good, for it only made me think more of myself 
and less of the Master ; but I wanted to review the past 
fortnight, and look the future in the face. Foolish Esther ! 
as though we can look at a veiled face. Only the past and 
the present is ours ; the future is hidden with God. 

Yes, a fortnight ago I was a merry, heedless school-girl, 
with no responsibilities and few duties, except that laborious 
one of self-improvement, which must go on, under some 
form or other, until we die. And now, on my shrinking 
shoulders lay the weight of a woman’s w^ork. I was to 
teach others, when I knew so little myself ; it was I who 
was to have the largest share of home administration — I, 
who was so faulty, so imperfect. 

Then I remembered a sentence Carrie had once read to 


ESTHER. 


54 

me out of one of her innumerable books, and which had 
struck me very greatly at the time. 

‘ Happy should I think myself,* said St. Francis de Sales, 
^ if I could rid myself of my imperfections but one quarter 
of an hour previous to my death.’ 

Well, if a saint could say that, why should I lose heart 
thinking about my faults ? What was the good of stirring 
up muddy water to try and see one’s own miserable reflec- 
tion, when one could look up into the serene blue of 
Divine Providence? If I had faults — and, alas! how 
many they were — I must try to remedy them ; if I slipped, 
I must pray for strength to rise again. 

Corn-age, Esther 1 ‘ Little by little,’ as Uncle Geoffrey 

says; ‘small beginnings make great endings.’ And when 
I had cheered myself with these words I went tranquilly 
to bed. 



0 the old Combe Manor days were over, and with 
them the girlhood of Esther Cameron. 



Ah me ! it was sad to say good-bye to the dear old 
home of our childhood ; to go round to our haunts, one by 
one, and look our last at every cherished nook and corner ; to 
bid farewell to our four-footed pets. Dapple and Cherry and 
Brindle, and the dear little spotted calves ; to caress our 
favourite pigeons for the last time, and to feed the greedy 
old turkey-cock, who had been the terror of our younger 
days. It was well, perhaps, that we were too busy for a 
prolonged leave-taking. Fred had gone to London, and 
his handsome lugubrious face no longer overlooked us as 
we packed books and china. Carrie and mother and Dot 
were cosily established in the little sea-side lodging, and 
only Allan, Jack, and I sat down to our meals in the dis- 
mantled rooms. 

It was hard work trying to keep cheerful, when Allan 
left off whistling, as he hammered at the heavy cases, and 
when Jack was discovered sobbing in odd corners, with 
Smudge in her arms — of course Smudge would accompany 
us to Milnthorpe ; no one could imagine Jack without her 
favourite sable attendant, and then Dot was devoted to 
him. Jack used to come to us with piteous pleadings to 



ESTHER. 


56 

take first one and then another of her pets ; now it was 
the lame chicken she had nursed in a little basket by the 
kitchen fire, then a pair of guinea pigs that belonged to 
Dot, and some carrier pigeons that they specially fancied ; 
after that, she was bent on the removal of a young family 
of hedgehogs, and some kittens that had been discovered in 
the hay-loft, belonging to the stable cat. 

We made a compromise at last, and entrusted to her 
care Carrie’s tame canaries, and a cage of dormice that 
belonged to Dot, in whose fate Smudge took a vast amount 
of interest, though he never ventured to look at the 
canaries. The care of these interesting captives was con- 
solatory to Jack, though she rained tears over them in 
secret, and was overheard by Allan telling them between 
her sobs that ‘ they were all going to live in a little pokey 
house, without chickens or cows, or anything that would 
make life pleasant, and that she and they must never ex- 
pect to be happy again.’ Ah, well ! the longest day must 
have an end, and by-and-by the evening came when we 
turned away from dear old Combe Manor for ever. 

It was far more cheerful work fitting up the new rooms 
at Milnthorpe, with Deborah’s strong arms to help, and 
Uncle Geoffrey standing by to encourage our efforts ; even 
Jack plucked up heart then, and hung up the canaries, and 
hid away the dormice out of Smudge’s and Jumbles’ reach, 
and consented to stretch her long legs in our behalf. Allan 
and I thought we had done wonders when all was finished, 
and even Deborah gave an approving word. 

‘ I think mother and Carrie will be pleased,’ I said, as I 
put some finishing touches to the tea-table on the evening 
we expected them. Allan had gone to the station to meet 
them, and only Uncle Geoffrey was my auditor. There 
was a great bowl of roses on the table, great crimson- 
hearted delicious roses, and a basket of nectarines, that 
some patient had sent to Uncle Geoffrey. The parlours 
looked very pretty and snug ; we had arranged our books 
on the shelves, and had hung up two or three choice en- 
gravings, and there was the gleam of purple and gold china 


THE FLITTING. 


57 

from the dark oak cabinet, and by the garden window there 
were mother’s little blue couch and her table and work- 
box, and Carrie’s davenport, and an inviting easy chair. 
The new curtains looked so well too. No wonder Uncle 
Geoffrey declared that he did not recognise his old room. 

‘ I am sure they will be pleased,’ I repeated, as I moved 
the old-fashioned glass dish full of our delicious Combe 
Manor honey ; but Uncle Geoffrey did not answer ; he was 
listening to some wheels in the distance. 

‘ There they are,’ he said, snatching up his felt wide- 
awake. ‘Don’t expect your mother to notice much to- 
night, Esther; poor thing, this is a sad coming home 
to her.’ 

I need not have worked so hard: that was my first 
thought when I saw mother’s face as she entered the room. 
She was trembling like a leaf, and her face was all 
puckered and drawn, as I kissed her ; but Uncle Geoffrey 
would not let her sit down or look at anything. 

‘ No, no, you shall not make efforts for us to-night,’ he 
said, patting her as though she were a child. ‘ Take your 
mother upstairs, children, and let her have quiet ! do you 
hear, nothing but quiet to-night.’ And then Allan drew 
her arm through his. 

I cried shame on myself f6r a selfish, disappointed pang, 
as I followed them. Of course Uncle Geoffrey was right 
and wise, as he always was, and I was still more ashamed 
of myself when I entered the room and found mother cry- 
ing as though her heart would break, and clinging to Allan. 

‘ Oh, children, children ! how can I live without your 
father?’ she exclaimed, hysterically. Well, it was wise of 
Allan, for he let that pass and never said a word ; he only 
helped me remove the heavy widow’s bonnet and cloak, 
and moved the big chintz couch nearer to the window, and 
then he told me to be quick and bring her some tea ; and 
when I returned he was sitting by her, fanning and talking 
to her in his pleasant boyish way ; and though the tears 
were still flowing down her pale cheeks she sobbed less 
convulsively. 


58 


ESTHER. 


* You have both been so good, and worked so hard, and 
I cannot thank you,’ she whispered, taking my hand, as I 
stood near her. 

‘ Esther does not want to be thanked,’ returned Allan, 
sturdily. ‘ Now you will take your tea, won’t you, mother ? 
and by-and-by one of the girls shall come and sit with you.’ 

‘Are we to go down and leave her?* I observed, 
dubiously, as Allan rose from his seat. 

‘Yes, go, both of you, I shall be better alone; Allan 
knows that,’ with a grateful glance as I reluctantly obeyed 
her. I was too young to understand the healing effects of 
quiet and silence in a great grief ; to me the thought of 
such loneliness was dreadful, until, later on, she explained 
the whole matter. 

‘ I*am never less alone than when I am alone,’ she said 
once, very simply, to me. ‘ I have the remembrance of 
your dear father and his words and looks ever before me, 
and God is so near — one feels that most when one is 
solitary.’ And her words remained with me long after- 
wards. 

It was not such a very sad evening, after all. The sea 
air had done Dot good, and he was in better spirits ; and 
then Carrie was so good and sweet, and so pleased with 
everything. 

‘ How kind of you, Esther,’ she said, with tears in her 
eyes, as I led her into her little bedroom. ‘ I hardly dared 
hope for this, and so near dear mother.’ Well, it was very 
tiny, but very pretty, too. Carrie had her own little bed, 
in which she had slept from a child, and the evening sun 
streamed full on it, and a pleasant smell of white jasmine 
pervaded it ; part of the window was framed with the 
delicate tendrils and tiny buds ; and there was her little 
prayer-desk, with its shelf of devotional books, and her 
little round table and easy-chair standing just as it used ; 
only, if one looked out of the window, instead of the belt 
of green circling meadows, dptted over by grazing cattle, 
there was the lawn and the mulberry tree — a little narrow 
and homely, but still pleasant. 


THE FLITTING. 


59 

Carrie’s eyes looked very vague and misty when I left 
her and went down to Dot. Allan had put him to bed, but 
he would not hear of going to sleep ; he had his dormice 
beside him, and Jumbles was curled up at the foot of the 
bed ; he wanted to show me his seaweed and shells, and 
tell me about the sea. 

‘ I can’t get it out of my head, Essie,’ he said, sitting up 
amongst his pillows and looking very wideawake and ex- 
cited. ‘ I used to fall asleep listening to the long wash and 
roll of the waves, and in the morning there it was again. 
Don’t you love the sea?’ 

‘ Yes, dearly. Dot ; and so does Allan.’ 

‘ It reminded me of the Pilgrim's Progress — just the last 
part. Don’t you remember the river that every one was 
obliged to cross ? Carrie told me it meant death.’ I nodded ; 
Dot did not always need an answer to his childish fancies, 
he used to like to tell them all out to Allan and me. ‘ One 
night,’ he went on, ‘ my back was bad, and I could not 
sleep, and Carrie made me up a nest of pillows in a big 
chair by the window, and we sat there ever so long after 
mother was fast asleep. 

‘It was so light — almost as light as day — and there 
were all sorts of sparkles over the water, as though it 
were shaking out tiny stars in play ; and there was one 
broad golden path — oh ! it was so beautiful — and then I 
thought of Christian and Christiana, and Mr. Keady-to- 
halt, and father, and they all crossed the river, you know.’ 

‘Yes, Dot,’ I whispered. And then I repeated softly 
the well-known verse we had so often sung — 

‘One army of the living God, 

To His command we bow; 

Part of the host have crossed the flood. 

And part are crossing now.* 

‘ Yes, yes,’ he repeated, eagerly ; ‘ it seemed as though I 
could see father walking down the long golden path ; it 
shone so, he could not have missed his way or fallen into 
the dark waters. Carrie told me that by-and-by there 


6o 


ESTHER, 


would be ^‘no more sea,” somehow; I was sorry for that 
— aren’t you, Essie?’ 

‘ Oh, no, don’t be sorry,’ I burst out, for I had often 
talked about this with Carrie. ‘ It is beautiful, but it is 
too shifting, too treacherous, too changeable, to belong to 
the higher life. Think of all the cruel wrecks, of all the 
drowned people it has swallowed up in its rage ; it devours 
men, and women, and little children. Dot, and hides its 
mischief with a smile. Oh no, it is false in its beauty, and 
there shall be an end of it, with all that is not true and 
perfect.’ 

And when Dot had fallen asleep, I went down to Uncle 
Geoffrey and repeated our conversation, to which he 
listened with a great deal of interest. 

‘ You are perfectly right, Esther,’ he said, thoughtfully ; 
^but I think there is another meaning involved in the 
words “ There shall be no more sea.” 

‘ The sea divides us often from those we love,’ he went 
on musingly ; ‘ it is our great earthly barrier. In that 
perfected life that lies before us there can be no barrier, 
no division, no separating boundaries. In the new earth 
there will be no fierce torrents or engulphing ocean, no rest- 
less moaning of waves. Do you not see this ? ’ 

^Yes, indeed. Uncle Geoffrey;’ but all the same I thought 
in my own mind that it was a pretty fancy of the child’s, 
thinking that he saw father walking across the moonlight sea. 
No, he could not have fallen in the dark water, no fear of 
that. Dot, when the angel of His mercy would hold him by 
the hand; and then I remembered a certain lake and a 
solemn figure walking quietly on its watery floor, and the 
words, ‘ It is I, be not afraid,’ that have comforted many 
a dying heart ! 

Allan had to leave us the next day, and go back to his 
work ; it was a pity, as his mere presence, the very sound 
of his bright young voice, seemed to rouse mother and do 
her good. As for me, I knew, when Allan went some of the 
sunshine would go with him, and the world would have a 
dull, work-a-day look. I tried to tell him so as we took our 


THE FLITTING, 


6i 


last walk together. There was a little lane just by Uncle 
Geoffrey’s house ; you turned right into it from the High- 
street, and it led into the country, within half-a-mile of 
the house. There were some haystacks and a farmyard, a 
place that went by the name of Grubbings’ Farm ; the soft 
litter of straw tempted us to sit down for a little, and listen 
to the quiet lowing of the cattle as they came up from their 
pasture to be milked. 

‘ It reminds me of Combe Manor,’ I said, and there was 
something wet on my cheek as I spoke ; ‘ and oh, Allan ! 
how I shall miss you to-morrow,’ and I touched his coat 
sleeve furtively, for Allan was not one to love demonstra- 
tion. But, to my surprise, he gave me a kind little pat. 

‘ Not more than I shall miss you,’ he returned, cheerily. 
*We always get along well, you and I, don’t we, little 
woman ? ’ And as I nodded my head, for something 
seemed to impede my utterance at that moment, he went 
on more seriously, ‘ You have a tough piece of work before 
you, Esther, you and Carrie; you will have to put your 
'^'^^Combe Manor pride in your pockets, and summon up all 
your Cameron strength of mind before you learn to submit 
to the will of strangers. 

‘ Our poor, pretty Carrie,’ he continued, regretfully ; 
‘ the little saint, as Uncle Geoffrey used to call her. I am 
afraid her work will not be quite to her mind, but you 
must smoothe her way as much as possible ; but there, I 
won’t preach on my last evening ; let me have your plans 
instead, my dear.’ 

But I had no plans to tell him, and so we drifted by 
degrees into Allan’s own work ; and as he told me about the 
hospital and his student friends, and the great bustling 
world in which he lived, I forgot my own cares. If I had 
not much of a life of my own to lead, I could still live in 
his. 

The pleasure of this talk lingered long in my memory ; 
it was so nice to feel that Allan and I understood each 
other so well and had no divided interests ; it always seems 
to me that a sister ought to dwell in the heart of a brother 


62 


ESTHER. 


and keep it warm for that other and sacred love that must 
come by-and-by ; not that the wife need drive the sister 
into outer darkness, but that there must be a humbler 
abiding in the outer court, perchance a little guestchamber 
on the wall ; the nearer and more royal abode must be 
for the elected woman among women. 

There is too little giving up and coming down in this 
world, too much jealous assertion of right, too little yield- 
ing of the sceptre in love. It may be hard — God knows it 
is hard, to our poor human nature, for some cherished 
sister to stand a little aside while another takes possession 
of the goodly mansion, yet if she be wise and bend gently 
to the new influence, there will be a ‘come up higher,’ long 
before the dregs of the feast are reached. Old bonds are 
not easily broken, early days have a sweetness of their 
own ; by-and-by the sister will find her place ready for her, 
and welcoming hands stretched out without grudging. 

The next morning I rose early to see Allan off. Just at 
the last moment Carrie came down in her pretty white 
wrapper to bid him good-bye. Allan was strapping up his 
portmanteau in the hall, and shook his head at her in 
comic disapproval. ‘ Fie, what pale cheeks. Miss Carrie ! 
One would think you had been burning the midnight oil.’ 
I wonder if Allan’s jesting words approached the truth, 
for Carrie’s face flushed suddenly, and she did not 
answer. 

Allan did not seem to notice her confusion. He bade us 
both good-bye very affectionately, and told us to be good 
girls and take care of ourselves, and then in a moment he 
was gone. 

Breakfast was rather a miserable business after that ; I 
was glad Uncle Geoffrey read his paper so industriously and 
did not peep behind the urn. Dot did, and slipped a hot 
little hand in mine, in an old-fashioned sympathizing way. 
Carrie, who was sitting in her usual dreamy, abstracted 
way, suddenly startled us all by addressing Uncle Geoffrey 
rather abruptly. 

‘Uncle Geoffrey, don’t you think either Esther or I ought 


THE FLITTING. 63 

to go over to the Thornes ? They want a governess, you 
know.’ 

‘ Eh, what ? * returned Uncle Geoffrey, a little disturbed 
at the interruption in the middle of the leading article. ‘ The 
Thornes’ ! Oh, yes, somebody was saying something to me 
the other day about them ; what was it ? ’ And he rubbed 
his hair a little irritably. 

‘ We need not trouble Uncle Geoffrey,’ I put in, softly ; 
‘ you and I can go across before mother comes down. I 
must speak to Deborah, and then I meant to hear Jack’s 
lessons, but they can wait.’ 

‘ Very well,’ returned Carrie, nonchalantly ; and then she 
added, in her composed, elder sisterly way, ‘ I may as well 
tell you, Esther, that I mean to apply for the place myself; 
it will be so handy the house being just opposite ; far more 
convenient than if I had a longer walk.’ 

‘ Very well,’ was my response, but I could not help 
feeling a little relief at her decision ; the absence of any 
walk was an evil in my eyes. The Thornes’ windows 
looked into ours ; already I had had a sufficient glimpse 
of three rather untidy little heads over the wire blind, and 
the spectacle had not attracted me. I ventured to hint 
my fears to Carrie that they were not very interesting 
children ; but, to my dismaj’', she answered that few 
children are interesting, and that one was as good as 
another. 

‘ But I mean to be fond of my pupils,’ I hazarded, rather 
timidly, as I took my basket of keys. I thought Uncle 
Geoffrey was deep in his paper again. ‘ I think a governess 
ought to have a good moral influence over them. Mother 
always said so.’ 

‘We can have a good moral influence without any 
personal fondness,’ returned Carrie, rather drily. Poor 
girl ! her work outside was distasteful to her, and she could 
not help showing it sometimes. 

^ ‘ One cannot take interest in a child without loving it in 
time,’ I returned, with a little heat, for I did not enjoy this 
slavish notion of duty — pure labour, and nothing- else. 


ESTHER. 


64 

Carrie did not answer, she leant rather wearily against the 
window, and looked absently out. Uncle Geoffrey gave her 
a shrewd glance as he folded up the newspaper and whistled 
to Jumbles. 

‘ Settle it between yourselves, girls,’ he observed, suddenly, 
as he opened the door ; ‘ but if I were little Annie Thorne, I 
know I should choose Esther ; ’ and with this parting thrust 
he left the room, making us feel terribly abashed. 



Mrs. Thorne was what I call a loud woman ; her voice 
was loud, and she was full of words, and rather inquisitive 
on the subject of her neighbours. 

She was somewhat good-looldng, but decidedly over- 
dressed. Early as it was, she was in a heavily-flounced 
silk dress, a little the worse for wear. I guessed that first 
day, with a sort Of feminine intuition, that Mrs. Thorne 
wore out all her second-best clothes in the morning. 
Perhaps it was my country bringing up, but I thought 
how pure and fresh Carrie’s modest dress looked beside it ; 
and as for the quiet face under the neatly-trimmed bonnet, 
I could see Mrs. Thorne fell in love with it at once. She 
scarcely looked at or spoke to me, except when civility 
demanded it ; and perhaps she was right, for who would 
care to look at me when Carrie was by? Then Carrie 
played, and I knew her exquisite touch would demand 
instant admiration. I was a mere bungler, a beginner 
beside her ; she even sang a charming little chanson. No 
wonder Mrs. Thorne was delighted to secure such an ac- 
complished person for her children’s governess. The three 
little girls came in by-and-by — shy, awkward children, 
with their mother’s black eyes, but without her fine com- 

F 


66 


ESTHER. 


plexion; plain, uninteresting little girls, with a sort of 
solemn non-intelligence in their blank countenances, and a 
perceptible shrinking from their mother’s sharp voice. 

' Shake hands with Miss Cameron, Lucy : she is going 
to teach you all manner of nice things. Hold yourself 
straight, Annie. What will these young ladies think of 
you, Belle, if they look at your dirty pinafore ? Mine are 
such troublesome children,’ she continued, in a complaining 
voice ; ‘ they are never nice and tidy and obedient, like 
other children. Mr. Thorne spoils them, and then finds 
fault with me.’ 

‘ What is your name, dear ? ’ I whispered to the youngest, 
when Mrs. Thorne had withdrawn with Carrie for a few 
minutes. They were certainly very unattractive children ; 
nevertheless, my heart warmed to them, as it did to all 
children. I was child-lover all my life. 

‘Annie,’ returned the little one, shyly rolling her fat 
arms in her pinafore. She was less plain than the others, 
and had not outgrown her plumpness. 

‘ Do you know I have a little brother at home, who is a 
sad invalid ; ’ and then I told them about Dot, about his 
patience and his sweet ways, and how he amused himself 
when he could not get off his couch for weeks ; and as I 
warmed and grew eloquent with my subject, their eyes 
became round and fixed, and a sort of dawning interest 
woke up on their solemn faces; they forgot I was a 
stranger, and came closer, and Belle laid a podgy and a 
very dirty hand on my lap. 

‘ How old is your little boy?’ asked Lucy, in a shrill 
whisper. And as I answered her Mrs. Thorne and Carrie 
re-entered the room. They both looked surprised when 
they saw the children grouped round me; Carrie’s eye- 
brows elevated themselves a little quizzically, and Mrs, 
Thorne called them away rather sharply. 

‘ Don’t take liberties with strangers, children. "What 
will Miss Cameron think of such manners?’ And then 
she dismissed them lather summarily. I saw Annie steal 
a little wistful look at me as she followed her sisters. 


OVE/^ THE WAY. 


67 

We took our leave after that. Mrs. Thorne shook hands 
with us very graciously, but her parting words were ad- 
dressed to Carrie. ‘ On Monday, then. Please give my 
kind regards to Dr. Cameron, and tell him how thoroughly 
satisfied I am with the proposed arrangement.* And Carrie 
answered very prettily ; but as the door closed she sighed 
heavily. 

‘ Oh, what children ! and what a mother ! ’ she gasped, 
as she took my arm and turned my footsteps away from 
the house. ‘ Never mind Jack, I am going to the service 
at St. Barnabas ; I want some refreshment after what I 
have been through.’ And she sighed again. 

‘ But, Carrie,’ I remonstrated, ‘ I have no time to spare. 
You know how Jack has been neglected, and how I have 
promised Allan to do my best for her until we can afford 
to send her to school.’ 

‘ You can walk with me to the church door,’ she re- 
turned, decidedly. I was beginning to find out that Carrie 
could be self-willed sometimes. ‘ I must talk to you, 
Esther ; I must tell you how I hate it. Fancy trying to 
hammer French and music into those children’s heads, 

when I might — I might !’ But here she stopped, 

actually on the verge of crying. 

‘ Oh, my darling Carrie ! ’ I burst out, for I never could 
bear to see her sweet face clouded for a moment, and she 
so seldom cried or gave way to any emotion. ‘ Why would 
you not let me speak ? I might have saved you this. I 
might have offered myself in your stead, and set you free 
for pleasanter work.’ But she shook her head, and 
struggled for composure. 

‘You would not have done for Mrs. Thorne, Esther, 
Don’t think me vain if I say that I play and sing far 
better than you.’ 

‘A thousand times better,’ I interposed. ‘And then 
you can draw.’ 

‘ Well, Mrs. Thorne is a woman who values accomplish- 
ments. You are clever at some things ; you speak French 
fairly, and then you are a good Latin scholar ’ (for Allan 


68 


ESTHER. 


and I studied that together) ; ‘ you can lay a solid founda- 
tion, as Uncle Geoffrey says ; but Mrs. Thorne does not 
care about that,’ continued Carrie, a little bitterly ; ‘ she 
wants a flimsy superstructure of accomplishments — music, 
and French, and drawing, as much as I can teach — a 
useful life-work, Esther.* 

‘Well, why not?* I returned, with a little spirit, for 
here was one of Carrie’s old arguments. ‘ If it be the 
work given us to do, it must be a useful life-work. It 
might be our duty to make artificial flowers for our liveli- 
hood — hundreds of poor creatures do that — and you would 
not scold them for waste of time, I suppose ?* 

‘ Anyhow, it is not work enough for me,* replied Carrie, 
firmly, and passing over my clever argument with a 
dignified silence ; ‘ it is the drudgery of mere ornamenta- 
tion that I hate. I will do my best for those dreadful 
children, Esther. Are they not pitiful, little, overdressed 
creatures ? And I will try and please their mother, though 
I have not a thought in common with her. And when I 
have finished my ornamental brick-making — told my tales 

of the bricks * here she paused, and looked at me with 

a heightened colour. 

‘ And what then ? * I asked, rather crossly, for there was 
a flaw in her speech somewhere, and I could not find it 
out. 

‘ We shall see, my wise little sister,* she said, letting go 
my arm with a kind pressure. ‘ See, here is St. Barnab^as ; 
is it not a dear old building ? Must you go back to Jack ?* 

‘ Yes, I must,* I answered, shortly. ‘ Laborare est orare 
— to labour is to pray, in my case, Carrie ; * and with that 
I left her. 

But Carrie’s arguments had seriously discomposed me. 
I longed to talk it all out with Allan, and I do not think 
I ever missed him so much as I did that day. I am afraid 
I was rather impatient with Jack that morning; to be 
sure she was terribly awkward and inattentive ; she would 
put her elbows on the table, and ink her fingers, and then 
she had a way of jerking her hair out of her eyes, which 


OVER THE WAY. 


69 

drove me nearly frantic. I began to think we really must 
send her to school. We had done away with the folding- 
doors, they always creaked so, and had hung up some 
curtains in their stead ; through the folds I could catch 
glimpses of dear mother leaning back in her chair, with 
Dot beside her. He was spelling over his lesson to her, in 
a queer little sing-song voice, and they looked so cool and 
quiet, that the contrast was quite provoking; and there 
was Carrie kneeling in some dim corner, and soothing her 
perturbed spirits with softly-uttered psalms and prayers. 

‘ Jack,’ I returned, for the sixth time, ‘ I cannot have you 
kick the table in that schoolboy fashion.’ 

Jack looked at me with roguish malice in her eyes. 
‘ You are not quite well, Esther ; you have got a pain in 
your temper, haven’t you, now?’ 

I don’t know what I might have answered, for Jack was 
right, and I was as cross as possible, only just at that 
moment Uncle Geoffrey put his head in at the door, and 
stood beaming on us like an angel of deliverance. 

‘ Fee-fo-fum,’ for he sometimes called Jack by that 
charming sobriquet, indeed, he was always inventing names 
for her, ‘ it is too hot for work, isn’t it ? I think I must 
give you a holiday, for I want Esther to go out with me.* 
Uncle Geoffrey’s wishes were law, and I rose at once ; but 
not all my secret feelings of relief could prevent me from 
indulging in a parting thrust. 

‘ I don’t think Jack deserves the holiday,’ I remarked, 
with a severe look at the culprit ; and Jack jerked her 
hair over her eyes this time in some confusion. 

‘ Hullo, Fee-fo-fum, what have you been up to ? Giving 
Esther trouble? Oh, fie! fie!’ 

‘I only kicked the table,’ returned Jack, sullenly, ‘be- 
cause I hate lessons — that I do. Uncle Geoffrey — and I 
inked my fingers because I liked it ; and I put my elbows 
on the copy-book because Esther said I wasn’t to do it ; 
and my hair got in my eyes ; and William the Conqueror 
had six wives, I know he had ; and I told Esther she had a 
pain in her temper, because she was as cross as two sticks ; 


ESTHER. 


70 

and I don’t remember any more, and I don’t care,’ finished 
Jack, who could be like a mule on occasions. 

Uncle Geoffrey laughed — he could not help it — and then 
he patted Jack kindly on her rough locks. ‘ Clever little 
Fee-fo-fum ; so William the Conqueror had six wives, had 
he ? Come, this is capital ; we must send you to school, 
Jack, that is what we must do. Esther cannot be in two 
places at once.’ What did he mean by that, I wonder ! 
And then he bid me run off and put on my hat, and not 
keep him waiting. 

Jack’s brief sullenness soon vanished, and she followed 
me out of the room to give me a penitent hug-^that was 
so like Jack ; the inky caress was a doubtful consolation, 
but I liked it, somehow. 

‘Where are you going. Uncle Geoff?’ I asked, as we 
walked up the High-street, followed by Jumbles, while 
Jack and Smudge watched us from the door. 

‘ Miss Lucas wants to see you,’ he returned, briefly. 
* Bless me, there is Carrie, deep in conversation with Mr. 
Smedley . Where on earth has the girl picked him up ? ’ 
And there, true enough, was Carrie, standing in the porch, 
talking eagerly to a fresh-coloured, benevolent-looking man, 
whom I knew by sight as the Vicar of St. Barnabas. 

She must have waylaid him after service, for the other 
worshippers had dropped off ; we had met two or three of 
them in the High-street. I do not know why the sight 
displeased me, for of course she had a right to speak to 
her clergyman. Uncle Geoffrey whistled under his breath, 
and then laughed and wondered ‘ what the little saint had 
to say to her pastor ; ’ but I did not let him go on, for I 
was too excited with our errand. 

‘Why does Miss Lucas want to see me?’ I asked, with 
a little beating of the heart. The Lucas family were the 
richest people in Milnthorpe. 

Mr. Lucas was the banker, and kept his carriage, and 
had a pretty cottage somewhere by the seaside ; they were 
Uncle Geo&ey’s patients, I knew, but what had that to 
do with poor little me ? 


OVER THE WAY. 


71 

^ Miss Lucas wants to find some one to teach her little 
niece,’ returned Uncle Geoffrey ; and then I remembered 
all at once that Mr. Lucas was a widower with one little 
girl. He had lost his wife about a year ago, and his 
sister had come to live with him and take care of his 
motherless child. What a chance this would have been 
for Carrie ! but now it was too late. I was half afraid 
as we came up to the great red-brick house, it was so 
grand and imposing, and so was the solemn-looking butler 
who opened the door and ushered us into the drawing- 
room. 

As we crossed the hall some one came suddenly out on 
us from a dark lobby, and paused when he saw us. ‘ Dr. 
Cameron ! This is your niece, I suppose, whom my sister 
Euth is expecting?’ and as he shook hands with us he 
looked at me a little keenly, I thought. He was younger 
than I expected ; it flashed across me suddenly that I had 
once seen his poor wife. I was standing looking out of the 
window one cold winter’s day, w^hen a carriage drove up to 
the door with a lady wrapped in furs. I remember Uncle 
Geoffrey went out to speak to her, and what a smile came 
over her face when she saw him. She was very pale, but 
very beautiful ; everyone said so in Milnthorpe, for she 
had been much beloved. 

‘ My sister is in the drawing-room ; you must excuse me 
if I say I am in a great hurry,’ and then he passed on with 
a bow. I thought him very formidable, the sort of man 
who would be feared as well as respected by his dependants. 
He had the character of being a very reserved man, with a 
great many acquaintances and few intimate friends. I 
had no idea at that time that no one understood him so 
well as Uncle Geoffrey. 

I was decidedly nervous when I followed Uncle Geoffrey 
meekly into the drawing-room. Its size and splendour 
did not diminish my fears, and I little imagined then how 
I should get to love that room. 

It was a little low, in spite of its spaciousness, and its 
three long windows opened in French fashion on to the 


ESTHER, 


72 

garden. I had a glimpse of the lawn, with a grand old 
cedar in the middle, before my eyes were attracted to a 
lady in deep mourning, writing in a little alcove, half 
curtained off from the rest of the room, and looking de- 
cidedly cosy. 

The moment she turned her face towards us at the 
mention of our names, my unpleasant feelings of nervous- 
ness vanished. She was such a little woman — slightly 
deformed, too — with a pale, sickly-looking face, and large 
clear eyes, that seemed to attract sympathy at once, for 
they seemed to say to one, ‘ I am only a timid, simple 
little creature. You need not be afraid of me.’ 

I was not very tall, but I almost looked down on her as 
she gave me her hand. 

‘ I was expecting you, Miss Cameron,’ she said, in such 
a sweet tone that it quite won my heart. ‘ Your uncle 
kindly promised to introduce us to each other.’ 

And then she looked at me, not keenly and scrutinisingly, 
as her brother had done, but with a kindly inquisitiveness, 
as though she wanted to know all about me, and to put me 
at my ease as soon as possible. I flushed a little at that, 
and my unfortunate sensitiveness took alarm. If it were 
only Carrie, I thought, with her pretty face and soft voice ; 
but I was so sadly unattractive, no one would be taken 
with me at first sight. Fred had once said so in my 
hearing, and how I had cried over that speech ! 

‘Esther looks older than she is ; but she is only seven- 
teen,’ interposed Uncle Geoffrey, as he saw that unlucky 
blush. ‘ She is a good girl, and very industrious, and her 
mother’s right hand,’ went on the simple man. If I only 
could have plucked up spirit and contradicted him, but I 
felt tongue-tied. 

^ ‘ She looks very reliable,’ returned Miss Lucas, in the 
kindest way. To this day I believe she could not find any 
compliment compatible with truth. I once told her so 
months afterwards, when we were very good friends, and 
she laughed and could not deny it. 

‘ You were frowning so, Esther,’ she replied, ‘ from ex- 


OVEI^ THE WAY. 


73 

cess of nervousness, I believe, that your forehead was quite 
lost in your hair, and your great eyes were looking at me 
in such a funny, frightened way, and the corners of your 
mouth all coming down, I thought you were five-and- 
twenty at least, and wondered what I was to do with such 
a proud repellent-looking young woman ; but when you 
smiled I began to see, then/ 

I had not reached the smiling stage just then, and was 
revolving her speech in rather a dispirited way. Eeliable ! 
I knew I was that ; when all at once she left off looking at 
me, and began talking to Uncle Geoffrey. 

‘ And so you have finished all your Good Samaritan 
arrangements, Dr. Cameron ; and your poor sister-in-law 
and her family are really settled in your house? You 
must let me know when I may call, or if I can be of any 
use. Giles told me all about it, and I was so interested.’ 

‘ Is it not good of Uncle Geoffrey ? ’ I broke in. And 
then it must have been that I smiled ; but I never could 
have passed that over in silence, to hear strangers praise 
him, and not join in. 

‘ I think it is noble of Dr. Cameron — we both think so,’ 
she answered, warmly; and then she turned to me again. 
‘ I can understand how anxious you must all feel to help 
and lighten his burdens. When Dr. Cameron proposed 
your services for my little niece — for he knows what an 
invalid I am, and that systematic teaching would be im- 
possible to me — I was quite charmed with the notion. But 
now, before we talk any more about it, supposing you and 
I go up to see Flurry.’ 


'■ir-r''' 



5Iurrg anb 5lossg. 


W HAT a funny little name ! I could not help saying 
so to Miss Lucas as I followed her up the old oak 
staircase with its beautifully carved balustrades. 
‘ It is her own baby abbreviation of Florence/ she re- 
turned, pausing on the landing to take breath, for even 
that slight ascent seemed to weary her. She was quite pale 
and panting by the time we arrived at our destination. 
‘ It is nice to be young and strong,’ she observed, wistfully. 

I am not very old, it is true ’ — she could not have been 
more than eight and twenty — ‘ but I have never enjoyed 
good health, and Dr. Cameron says I never can hope to do 
so ; but what can you expect of a crooked little creature 
like me ? ’ with a smile that was quite natural and humorous, 
and seemed to ask no pity. 

Miss Euth was perfectly content with her life. I found 
out afterwards she evoked rare beauty out of its quiet 
every-day monotony, storing up precious treasures in 
homely vessels. 

Life was to her full of infinite possibilities, a gradual 
dawning and brightening of hopes that would meet their 
full fruition hereafter. ‘ Some people have strength to 
work,’ she said once to me, ‘ and then plenty of work is 
given to them ; and some must just keep quiet and watch 
others work, and give them a bright word of encourage- 
ment now and then. I am one of those wayside loiterers,’ 
she finished, with a laugh ; but all the same every one knew 


FLURRY AND FLOSSl. 75 

how much Miss Euth did to help others, in spite of her 
failing strength. 

The schoolroom, or nursery, as I believe it was called, 
was a large pleasant room just over the drawing-room, and 
commanding the same view of the garden and cedar-tree. 
It had three windows, only they were rather high up, and 
had cushioned window-seats. In one of them there was a 
little girl curled up in company with a large brown and 
white spaniel. 

‘ Well, Flurry, what mischief are you and Flossy con- 
cocting?’ asked Miss Lucas, in a playful voice, for the 
child was too busily engaged to notice our entrance. 

‘ Why, it is my little auntie,’ exclaimed Flurry, joyously, 
and she scrambled down, while Flossy wagged his tail and 
barked. Evidently Miss Euth was not a frequent visitor 
to the nursery. 

Flurry was about six, not a pretty child by any means, 
though there might be a promise of future beauty in her 
face. She was a thin, serious-looking little creature, more 
like the father than the mother, and no one could call Mr. 
Lucas handsome. Her dark eyes — nearly black they were 
— matched oddly, in my opinion, with her long fair hair ; 
such pretty fluffy hair it was, falling over her black frock. 
When her aunt bade her come and speak to the lady who 
was kind enough to promise to teach her, she stood for a 
moment regarding me gravely with childish inquisitiveness 
before she gave me her hand. 

‘ What are you going to teach me ? ’ she asked. ‘ I 
don’t think I want to be taught, auntie ; I can read, I 
have been reading to Flossy, and I can write, and hem 
father’s handkerchiefs. Ask nursey.’ 

‘ But you would like to play to dear father, and to learn 
all sorts of pretty hymns to say to him, would you not, 
my darling ? There are many things you will have to 
know before you are a woman.’ 

‘I don’t mean to be a woman ever, I think,’ observed 
Flurry ; ‘ I like being a child better. Nursey is a woman, 
and nursey won’t play ; she says she is old and stupid.’ 


ESTHER. 


76 

A happy inspiration came to me. ‘ If you are good and 
learn your lessons, I will play with you,’ I said, rather 
timidly ; ‘ that is, if you care for a grown-up playfellow.’ 

I was only seventeen, in spite of my prononce features, 
and I could still enter into the delights of a good drawn 
battle of battledore and shuttlecock. Perhaps it was the 
repressed enthusiasm of my tone, for I really meant what 
I said ; but Flurry’s brief coldness vanished, and she 
caught at my hand at once. 

‘ Come and see them,’ she said ; ‘ I did not know you 
liked dolls, but you shall have one of your own if you like; ’ 
and she led me to a corner of the nursery where a quantity 
of dolls in odd costumes and wonderfully constrained 
attitudes were arranged round an inverted basket. 

‘ Joseph and his brethren,’ whispered Flurry. ‘ I am 
going to put him in the pit directly, only I wondered what 
I should do for the camels — this is Issachar, and this Gad. 
Look at Gad’s turban.’ 

It was almost impossible to retain my gravity. I could 
see Miss Lucas smiling in the window seat. Joseph and 
his brethren — what a droll idea for a child ! But I did not 
know then that Flurry’s dolls had to sustain a variety of 
bewildering parts. When I next saw them the smart 
turbans were all taken off the flaxen heads, a few dejected 
sawdust bodies hung limply round a miller’s cart. 
‘ Ancient Britons,’ whispered Flurry. ‘ Nurse would not 
let me paint them blue, but they did not wear clothes then, 
you know.’ In fact, our history lesson was generally 
followed by a series of touching tableaux vivants, the dolls 
sustaining their parts in several moving scenes of ‘ Alfred 
and the Cakes,’ ‘ Hubert and Arthur,’ and once ‘ the Battle 
of Cressy.’ 

Flurry and I parted the best of friends ; and when we 
joined Uncle Geoffrey in the drawing-room I was quite 
ready to enter on my duties at once. 

Miss Lucas stipulated for my services from ten till five ; 
a few simple lessons in the morning were to be followed by 
a walk, I was to lunch with them, and in the afternoon I 



“1 did not know you liked dolls.^^ 


Page 76, 








FLURRY AND FLOSSY. 79 

was to amuse Flurry or teach her a little — just as I 
liked. 

‘ The fact is/ observed Miss Lucas, as I looked a little 
surprised at this programme, ‘ Nurse is a worthy woman, 
and we are all very much attached to her ; but she is very 
ignorant, and my brother will not have Flurry thrown too 
much on her companionship. He wishes me to find some 
one who will take the sole charge of the child through the 
day ; in the evening she always comes down to her father 
and sits with him until her bedtime.’ And then she 
named what seemed to me a surprisingly large sum for 
services. What ! all that for playing with Flurry, and 
giving her a few baby lessons ; poor Carrie could not have 
more for teaching the little Thornes. But when I hinted 
this to Uncle Geoffrey, he said quietly that they were rich 
people and could well afford it. 

‘ Don’t rate yourself so low, little woman,’ he added, 
good-humouredly ; ‘ you are giving plenty of time and 
interest, and surely that is worth something.’ And then 
he went on to say that Jack must go to school, he knew a 
very good one just by; some ladies who were patients of 
his would take her at easy terms, he knew. He would call 
that very afternoon and speak to Miss Martin. 

Poor mother shed a few tears when I told her our plans. 
It was sad for her to see her girls reduced to work for 
themselves ; but she cheered up after a little while, and 
begged me not to think her ungrateful and foolish. ‘ For 
we have so many blessings, Esther,’ she went on, in her 
patient way. ‘We are all together, except poor Fred, and 
but for your uncle’s goodness we might have been 
separated.’ 

‘ And we shall have such nice cosy evenings,’ I returned, 
‘ when the day’s work is over. I shall feel like a day 
labourer, mother, bringing home my wages in my pocket. 
I shall be thinking of you and Dot all day, and longing to 
get back to you.’ 

But though I spoke and felt so cheerfully, I knew the 
evenings would not be idle. There would be mending to 


ESTHER. 


8o 

do and linen to make, for we could not afford to buy our 
things ready-made ; but, with mother’s clever fingers and 
Carrie’s help, I thought we should do very well. I must 
utilise every spare minute, I thought. I must get up early 
and help Deborah, so that things might go on smoothly for 
the rest of the day. There was Dot to dress, and mother 
was ailing, and had her breakfast in bed — there would be a 
hundred little things to set right before I started off for 
the Cedars, as Mr. Lucas’s house was called. 

‘ Never mind, it is better to wear out than to rust out,’ 
I said to myself. And then I picked up Jack’s gloves from 
the floor, hung up her hat in its place, and tried to efface 
the marks of her muddy boots from the carpet (I cannot 
deny Jack was a thorn in my side just now), and then there 
came a tap at my door, and Carrie came in. 

She looked so pretty and bright, that I could not help 
admiring her afresh. I am sure people must have called 
her beautiful. 

* How happy you look, Carrie, in spite of your three 
little Thornes,’ I said, rather mischievously. ‘ Has mother 
told you about Miss Lucas?’ 

‘ Yes, I heard all about that,’ she returned, absently. 
‘ You are very fortunate, Esther, to find work in which you 
can take an interest. I am glad — very glad about that.’ 

‘ I wish, for your sake, that we could exchange,’ I re- 
turned, feeling myself very generous in intention, but all 
the same delighted that my unselfishness should not be 
put to the proof. 

‘ Oh no, I have no wish of that sort,’ she replied, hastily ; 
‘ I could not quite bring myself to play with children in 
the nursery.’ I suppose mother had told her about the 
dolls. ‘ Well, we both start on our separate treadmill on 
Monday — Black Monday, eh, Esther?’ 

‘ Not at all,’ I retorted, for I was far too pleased and 
excited with my prospects to be damped by Carrie’s want 
of enthusiasm. I thought I would sit down and write to 
Jessie, and tell her all about it, but here was Carrie pre- 
paring herself for one of her chats. 


FLURRY AND FLOSSY. 


8l 


‘Did you sec me talking to Mr. Smedley, Esther she 
began ; and as I nodded she went on. ‘ I had never 
spoken to him before since Uncle Geoffrey introduced us to 
him. He is such a nice practical sort of man. He took 
me into the Vicarage and introduced me to his wife. She 
is very plain and homely, but so sensible.’ 

I held my peace. I had rather a terror of Mrs. Smedley. 
She was one of those bustling workers whom one dreads by 
instinct. She had a habit of pouncing upon people, es- 
pecially young ones, and driving them to work. Before 
many days were over she had made poor mother promise 
to do some cutting out for the clothing club, as though 
mother had not work enough for us all at home. I thought 
it very inconsiderate of Mrs. Smedley. 

‘I took to them at once,’ went on Carrie, ‘and indeed 
they were exceedingly kind. Mr. Smedley seemed to un- 
derstand everything in a moment, how I wanted work, 
and ’ 

‘ But, Carrie,’ I demanded, aghast at this, ‘ you have 
work : you have the little Thornes.’ 

‘ Oh, don’t drag them in at every word,’ she answered, 
pettishly — at least pettishly for her; ‘of course, I have my 
brick-making, and so have you. I am thinking of other 
things now, Esther ; I have promised Mr. Smedley to be 
one of his district visitors.’ 

I almost jumped off my chair at that, I was so startled 
and so indignant. 

‘ Oh, Carrie ! and when you know mother does not ap- 
prove of girls of our age undertaking such work — she has 
said so over and over again — how can you go against her 
wishes ? ’ 

Carrie looked at me mildly, but she was not in the least 
discomposed at my words. 

‘Listen to me, you silly child,’ she said, good- 
humouredly ; ‘ this is one of mother’s fancies ; you cannot 
expect me with my settled views to agree with her in this.’ 

I don’t know what Carrie meant by her views, unless 
they consisted in a determination to make herself and 

G 


82 


ESTHER. 


every one else uncomfortable by an overstrained sense of 
duty. 

‘ Middle-aged people are timid sometimes. Mother has 
never visited the poor herself, so she does not see the 
necessity for my doing it ; but I am of a different opinion,’ 
continued Carrie, with a mild obstinacy that astonished me 
too much for any reply. 

‘When mother cried about it just now, and begged me 
to let her speak to Mr. Smedley, I told her that I was old 
enough to judge for myself, and that I thought one’s con- 
science ought not to be slavishly bound even to one’s 
parent. I was trying to do my duty to her and to every one, 
but I must not neglect the higher part of my vocation.’ 

‘ Oh, Carrie, how could you ? You will make her so 
unhappy.* 

‘No; she only cried a good deal, and begged me to be 
prudent and not overtax' my strength ; and then she talked 
about you, and hoped I should help you as much as 
possible, as though I meant to shirk any part of my duty. 
I do not think she really disapproved, only she seemed 
nervous and timid about it ; but I ask you, Esther, how I 
could help offering my services, when Mrs. Smedley told 
me about the neglected state of the parish, and how few 
ladies came forward to help?’ 

‘But how will you find time?’ I remonstrated; though 
what was the good of remonstrating when Carrie had once 
made up her mind? 

‘ I have the whole of Saturday afternoon, and an hour 
on Wednesday, and now the evenings are light I might 
utilise them a little. I am to have Nightingale-lane and 
the whole of Eowley-street, so one afternoon in the week 
will scarcely be sufficient.’ 

‘ Oh, Carrie,’ I groaned ; but actually, though the 
mending lay on my mind like a waking nightmare, I could 
not expostulate with her. I only looked at her in a dim, 
hopeless way and shook my head ; if these were her views 
I must differ from them entirely. Not that I did not wish 
good — heavenly good — to the poor, but that I felt home 


FLURRY AND FLOSSY 83 

duties would have to be left undone; and after all that 
uncle had done for us ! 

‘ And then I promised Mrs. Smedley that I would help 
in the Sunday-school/ she continued, cheerfully. ‘ She was 
so pleased, and kissed me quite gratefully. She says she 
and Mr. Smedley have had such up-hill work since they 
came to Milnthorpe — and there is so much lukewarmness 
and worldliness in the place. Even Miss Lucas, in spite of 
her goodness — and she owned she was very good, Esther — 
will not take their advice about things. 

‘I told her,’ she went on, hesitating, ‘that I would 
speak to you, and ask you to take a Sunday class in the 
infant school. You are so fond of children, I thought you 
would be sure to consent.’ 

‘ So I would, and gladly too, if you would take my place 
at home,’ I returned, quickly ; ‘ but if you do so much 
yourself, you will prevent me from doing anything. Why 
not let me take the Sunday-school class, while you stop 
with mother and Dot ? ’ 

‘ What nonsense ! ’ she replied, flushing a little, for my 
proposition did not please her ; ‘ that is so like you, Esther, 
to raise obstacles for nothing. Why cannot we both teach ; 
surely you can give one afternoon a week to God’s work ? ’ 

‘ I hope I am giving not one afternoon, but every after- 
noon to it,’ I returned, and the tears rushed to my eyes, for 
her speech wounded me. ‘ Oh, Carrie, why will you not 
understand that I think that all work that is given us to 
do is God’s work? It is just as right for me to play with 
Flurry as it is to teach in the Sunday-school.’ 

‘ You can do both if you choose,’ she answered, coolly. 

‘ Not unless you take my place,’ I returned, decidedly, 
for I had the Cameron spirit, and would not yield my 
point ; ‘ for in that case Dot would lose his Sunday lessons, 
and Jack would be listless and fret mother.’ 

‘ Very well,’ was Carrie’s response ; but I could see she 
was displeased with my plain speaking ; and I went down- 
stairs very tired and dispirited, to find mother had cried 
herself into a bad headache. 


84 


ESTHER. 


* If I could only talk to your dear father about it,’ she 
whispered, when she had opened her heart to me on the 
subject of Carrie. ‘ I am old-fashioned, as Carrie says, and 
it is still my creed that parents know best for their chil- 
dren ; but she thinks differently, and she is so good that, 
perhaps, one ought to leave her to judge for herself. If I 
could only know what your father would say,’ she went on, 
plaintively. 

I could give her no comfort, for I was only a girl myself, 
and my opinions were still immature and unfledged, and 
then I never had been as good as Carrie. But what I said 
seemed to console mother a little, for she drew down my 
face and kissed it. 

‘ Always my good, sensible Esther,’ she said ; and then 
Uncle Geoffrey came in and prescribed for the headache, 
and the subject dropped. 



HAPTEK IX. 

^EI;c (Cc6ars. 


I WAS almost ashamed of myself for 
being so happy, and yet it was a 
sober kind of happiness too. I did 
not forget my father, and I missed Allan with an intensity 
that surprised myself ; but, in spite of hard work and the 
few daily vexations that hamper every one’s lot, I continued 
to extract a great deal of enjoyment out of my life. To 
sum it up with a word, it was life — not mere existence — a 
life brimming over with duties and responsibilities and 
untried work, too busy for vacuum. Every corner and 
interstice of time filled up — heart, and head, and hands 
always fully employed; and youth and health, those two 
grand gifts of God, making all such work a delight. 

Now I am older, and the sap of life does not run so freely 
in my veins, I almost marvel at the remembrance of those 
days, at my youthful exuberance and energy, and those 
words, ‘ As thy day, so shall thy strength be,’ come to me 
with a strange force and illumination, for truly I needed it 
all then, and it was given to me. Time was a treasure 
trove, and I husbanded every minute with a miser’s zeal, 
I had always been an early riser, and now I reaped the 
benefit of this habit. Jack used to murmur discontentedly 
in her sleep when I set the window open soon after six, and 
the fresh summer air fanned her hot face. But how cool 
and dewy the garden looked at that hour ! 



86 


ESTHER. 


It was SO bright and still, with the thrushes and black- 
birds hopping over the wet lawn, and the leaves looking so 
fresh and green in the morning sun ; such twitterings and 
chirpings came from the lilac trees, where the little brown 
sparrows twittered and plumed themselves. The bird 
music used to chime in in a sort of refrain to my morning 
prayers — a diminutive chorus of praise — the chorale before 
the day’s service commenced. 

I always gave Jack a word of warning before I left the 
room (the reprimand used to find her in the middle of a 
dream), and then I went to Dot. I used to help him to 
dress and hear him repeat his prayers, and talk cheerfully 
to him when he was languid and fretful, and the small 
duties of life were too heavy for his feeble energies. Dot 
always took a large portion of my time ; his movements 
were slow and full of tiny perversities ; he liked to stand 
and philosophise in an infantile way when I wanted to be 
downstairs helping Deborah. Dot’s fidgets, as I called 
them, were part of the day’s work. 

When he was ready to hobble downstairs with his crutch, 
I used to fly back to Jack, and put a few finishing touches 
to her toilet, for I knew by experience that she would make 
her appearance downstairs with a crooked parting and a 
collar awry, and be grievously iDlaintive when Carrie found 
fault with her. Talking never mended matters ; Jack was 
at the hoyden age, and had to grow into tidiness and 
womanhood by-and-by. 

After that I helped Deborah, and took up mother’s break- 
fast. I always found her lying with her face to the window, 
and her open Bible beside her. Carrie had always been in 
before me and arranged the room. Mother slept badly, 
and at that early hour her face had a white, pining look, as 
though she had lost her way in the night, or waked to miss 
something. She used to turn with a sweet troubled smile 
to me as I entered. 

‘ Here comes my busy little woman,’ she would say, with 
a pretence at cheerfulness, and then she would ask after 
Dot. She never spoke much of her sadness to us ; with an 


THE CEDARS, 


87 

unselfishness that was most rare she refused to dim our 
young cheerfulness by holding an unhealed grief too plainly 
before our eyes. Dear mother, I realise now what that 
silence must have cost her ! 

When breakfast was over, and Uncle Geoffrey busily en- 
grossed with his paper, I used to steal into the kitchen and 
have a long confab with Deborah, and then Jack and I 
made our bed and dusted our room to save Martha, and by 
that time I was ready to start to the Cedars ; but not 
until I had convoyed Jack to Miss Martin’s, and left her 
and her books safely at the door. 

Dot used to kiss me rather wistfully when I left him with 
his lesson-books and paint-box, waiting for mother to come 
down and keep him company. Poor little fellow, he had 
rather a dull life of it, for even Jumbles refused to stay 
with him, and Smudge was out in the garden, lazily watch- 
ing the sparrows. Poor little lonely boy, deprived of the 
usual pleasures of boyhood, and looldng out on our busy 
lives from a sort of sad twilight of pain and weakness, but 
keeping such a brave heart and silent tongue over it all. 

How I enjoyed my little walk up High-street and across 
the wide, sunshiny square ! When I reached the Cedars, 
and the butler admitted me, I used to run up the old oak 
staircase and tap at the nursery door. 

Nurse used to curtsey and withdraw ; Flurry and I had 
it all to ourselves. I never saw Miss Lucas until luncheon- 
time ; she was more of an invalid than I knew at that time, 
and rarely left her room before noon. Flurry and I soon 
grew intimate ; after a few days were over we were the best 
of friends. She was a clever child and fond of her lessons, 
but she was full of droll fancies. She always insisted on 
her dolls joining our studies. It used to be a little embar- 
rassing to me at first to see myself surrounded by the 
vacant waxen faces staring at us, with every variety of 
smirk and bland fatuous expression ; the flaxen heads nid- 
nodded over open lesson books, propped up in limp, leathery 
arms. When Flossy grew impatient for a game of play, he 
would drag two or three of them down with a vicious snap 


88 


ESTHER, 


and a stroke of his feathery paws. Flurry would shake 
her head at him disapprovingly, as she picked them up 
and shook out their smart frocks. The best behaved of 
the dolls always accompanied us in our walk before 
luncheon. 

I used to think of Carrie’s words, sometimes, as I played 
with Flurry in the afternoon ; she would not hear of lessons 
then. Sometimes I would coax her to sew a little, or draw ; 
and she always had her half-hour at the piano, but during 
the rest of the afternoon I am afraid there was nothing but 
play. 

How I wish Dot could have joined us sometimes as we 
built our famous brick castles, or worked in Flurry’s little 
garden, where she grew all sorts of wonderful things. 
When I was tired or lazy I used to bring out my needle- 
work to the seat under the cedar, and tell Flurry stories, 
or talk to her as she dressed her dolls ; she was very good 
and tractable, and never teased me to play when* I was dis- 
inclined. 

I told her about Dot very soon, and she gave me no 
peace after that until I took her to see him ; there was 
quite a childish friendship between them soon. Flurry 
used to send him little gifts, which she purchased with her 
pocket-money — pictures, and knives, and pencils. I often 
begged Miss Lucas to put a stop to it, but she only laughed 
and praised Flurry, and put by choice little portions of 
fruit and other dainties for Flurry’s boy friend. 

Flurry prattled a great deal about her father, but I never 
saw him. He had his luncheon at the bank. Once when 
we were playing battledore and shuttlecock in the hall 
— for Miss Lucas liked to hear us all over the house ; 
she said it made her feel cheerful — I heard a door open 
overhead, and caught a glimpse of a dark face watching us ; 
but I thought it was Morgan the butler, until Flurry called 
out joyfully, ‘ Father ! Father ! ’ and then it disappeared. 
Now and then I met him in the square, and he always knew 
me, and took off his hat ; but I did not exchange a word 
with him for months. 


THE CEDARS. 


89 

Flurry loved him, and seemed deep in his confidence. 
She always put on her best frock and little pearl necklace 
to go down and sit with her father, while he ate his dinner. 
She generally followed him into his study, and chatted to 
him, until nurse fetched her at bed-time. When she had 
asked me some puzzling question that it was impossible to 
answer, she would refer it to her father with implicit faith. 
She would make me rather uncomfortable at times respect- 
ing little speeches of his. 

‘ Father can’t understand why you are so fond of play,’ she 
said once to me ; ‘ he says so few grown-up girls deign to 
amuse themselves with a game ; Wt you do like it, don’t 
you. Miss Cameron ? ’ making up a very coaxing face. Of 
course I confessed to a great fondness for games, but all the 
same I wished Mr. Lucas had not said that. Perhaps he 
thought me too hoydenish for his child’s governess, and for 
a whole week after that I refused to play with Flurry, until 
she began to mope, and my heart misgave me. We played 
at hide and seek that day all over the house — ^Flurry and 
Flossy and I. 

Then another time, covering me with dire confusion, 
^ Father thinks that such a pretty story, Miss Cameron, the 
one about Gretchen. He said I ought to try and remember 
it, and write it down ; and then he asked if you had really 
made it up in your head.’ 

‘ Oh, Flurry, that silly little story?’ 

‘ Not silly at all,’ retorted Flurry, with a little heat ; 
‘ father had a headache, and he could not talk to me, so I 
told him stories to send him to sleep, and I thought he 
would like dear little Gretchen. He never went to sleep 
after all, but his eyes were wide open, staring at the fire ; 
and then he told me he had been thinking of dear mamma, 
and he thought I should be very like her some day. And 
then he thanked me for my pretty stories, and then tire- 
some old Nursey fetched me to bed.’ 

That stupid little tale ! To think of Mr. Lucas listening 
to that. I was not a very inventive story-teller, though I 
could warm into eloquence on occasions, but Flurry’s 


ESTHER, 


90 

demand was so excessive that I hit on a capital plan 
at last* 

I created a wonderful child heroine, and called her 
Juliet, and told a little fresh piece of her history every 
day. Never was there such a child for impossible ad- 
ventures and hairbreadth escapes; what that unfortunate 
little creatmre went through was known only to Flurry 
and me. 

She grew to love Juliet like a make-believe sister of her 
own, and talked of her at last as a living child. What 
long moral conversations took place between Juliet and 
her mother, what admirable remarks did that excellent 
mother make, referring to sundry small sins of omission 
and commission on Juliet’s part ! When I saw Flurry 
wince and turn red I knew the remarks had struck home. 

It was astonishing how Juliet’s behaviour varied with 
Flurry’s. If Flurry were inattentive, Juliet was listless ; 
if her history lessons were ill-learnt, Juliet’s mamma had 
always a great deal to say about the battle of Agincourt or 
any other event that it was necessary to impress on her 
memory. I am afraid Flurry at last took a great dislike 
to that well-meaning lady, and begged to hear more about 
Juliet’s little brother and sister. When I came to a very 
uninteresting part she would propose a game of ball or a 
scamper with Flossy ; but all the same next day we would 
be back at it again. 

The luncheon hour was very pleasant to me. I grew to 
like Miss Lucas excessively ; she talked so pleasantly and 
seemed so interested in all I had to tell her about myself 
and Flurry ; a quiet atmosphere of refinement surrounded 
her — a certain fitness and harmony of thought. Some- 
times she would invite us into the drawing-room after 
luncheon, saying she felt lonely and would be glad of our 
society for a little. I used to enjoy those half-hours, 
though I am afraid Flurry found them a little wearisome. 
Our talk went over her head, and she would listen to it 
with a droll, half-bored expression, and take refuge at last 
with Flossy. 


THE CEDARS, 


91 

Sometimes, but not often, Miss Lucas would take us 
to drive with her. I think, until she knew me well, that 
she liked better to be alone with her own thoughts. As 
our knowledge of each other grew, I was struck with the 
flower-like unfolding of her ideas; they would bud and 
break forth into all manner of quaint fancies — their fresh- 
ness and originality used to charm me. 

I think there is no interest in life compared to knowing 
people — finding them out, their tastes, character, and so 
forth. I had an inquisitive delight, I called it thirst, for 
human knowledge, in drawing out a stranger ; no traveller 
exploring unknown tracts of country ever pursued his re- 
searches with greater zeal and interest. Eeserve only 
attracts me. 

Impulsive people, who let out their feelings the first 
moment, do not interest me half so much as silent folk. 
I like to sit down before an enclosed citadel and besiege 
it ; with such ramparts of defence there must be precious 
store in the heart of the city, some hidden jewels, perhaps ; 
at least, so I argue with myself. 

But, happy as I was with Miss Lucas and Flurry, five 
o’clock no sooner struck than I was flying down the oak 
staircase, with Flurry peeping at me between the balus- 
trades, and waving a mite of a hand in token of adieu ; for 
was I not going home to mother and Dot ? Oh, the dear, 
bright home scene that always awaited me ! I wonder if 
Carrie loved it as I did ! The homely, sunny little parlours ; 
the cosy tea-table, over which old Martha would be 
hovering with careful face and hands ; mother in her low 
chair by the garden window ; Uncle Geoffrey with his books 
and papers at the little round table ; Dot and Jack hidden 
in some corner, out of which Dot would come stumping on 
his poor little crutches to kiss me, and ask after his little 
friend Flurry. 

‘Here comes our Dame Bustle,’ Uncle Geoffrey would 
say. It was his favourite name for me, and mother 
would look up and greet me with the same loving smile 
that was never wanting on her dear face. 


92 


ESTHER, 


On the stairs I generally came upon Carrie, coming 
down from her little room. 

^How are the little Thornes?’ I would ask her, cheer- 
fully; but by-and-by I left off asking her about them. 
At Trst she used to shrug her shoulders and shake her 
head in a sort of disconsolate fashion, or answered in- 
differently, ‘ Oh, much as usual, thank you.’ But once 
she returned, quite pettishly — 

‘ Why do you ask after those odious children, Esther ? 
Why cannot you let me forget them for a few hours? 
If we are brickmakers, we need not always be telling the 
tales of our bricks.’ She finished with a sort of weary 
tone in her tired voice, and after that I let the little 
Thornes alone. 

What happy evenings those were ! Not that we were 
idle, though — ‘ the saints forbid,’ as old Biddy used to say. 
When tea was over, mother and I betook ourselves to the 
huge mending basket ; sometimes Carrie joined us, when 
she w^as not engaged in district work, and then her clever 
fingers made the work light for us. 

Then there were Jack’s lessons to superintend, and 
sometimes I had to help Dot with his drawing, or copy 
out papers for Uncle Geoffrey; then by-and-by Dot had 
to be taken upstairs, and there were little things to do 
for mother when Carrie was too tired or busy to do them. 
Mother was Carrie’s charge. As Dot and Jack were mine, 
it was a fair division of labour, only somehow Carrie had 
always so much to do. 

Mother used to fret sometimes about it, and complain 
that Carrie sat up too late burning the midnight oil in her 
little room ; but I never could find out what kept her up. 
I was much happier about Carrie now — she seemed brighter 
and in better spirits. If she loathed her daily drudgery, 
she said little about it, and complained less. All her 
interests were reserved for Nightingale-lane and Eowley- 
street. The hours spent in those unsavoury neighbour- 
hoods were literally her times of refreshment. Her poor 
people were very close to her heart, and often she told us 


THE CEDARS, 


93 

about them as we sat working together in the evening, 
until mother grew quite interested, and used to ask after 
them by name, which pleased Carrie, and made a bond of 
sympathy between them. At such times I somehow felt a 
little sad, though I would not have owned it for worlds, for 
it seemed to me as though my work were so trivial com- 
pared to Carrie’s — as though I were a poor little Martha, 
‘ careful and troubled about many things,’ about Deborah’s 
crossness and Jack’s reckless ways, occupied with small 
minor duties — dressing Dot, and tidying Jack’s and Uncle 
Geoffrey’s drawers ; while Carrie was doing angel’s work : 
reclaiming drunken women, and teaching miserable de- 
graded children, and then coming home and playing sweet 
sacred fragments of Handel to soothe mother’s worn spirits, 
or singing her the hymns she loved. Alas ! I could not 
sing except in church, and my playing was a poor affair 
compared to Carrie’s. 

I felt it most on Sundays, when Carrie used to go off to 
the Sunday-school morning and afternoon, and left me 
to the somewhat monotonous task of hearing Jack her 
Catechism and giving Dot his Scripture lesson. Sunday 
was always a trial to Dot. He was not strong enough to 
go to church — the service would have wearied him too 
much — his few lessons were soon done, and then time used 
to hang heavily on his hands. 

At last the grand idea came to me to set him to copy 
Scripture maps, and draw small illustrations of any Bib- 
lical scene that occurred in the lesson of the day. I have 
a book full of his childish fancies now, all elaborately 
coloured on week-days — ‘ Joseph and his Brethren ’ in 
gaudy turbans, and wonderfully inexpressive countenances, 
reminding me of Flurry’s dolls ; the Queen of Sheba, coming 
before Solomon, in a marvellous green tiara and yellow gar- 
ments; a headless Goliath, expressed with a painful degree 
of detail, more fit for the Wirtz Gallery than a child’s 
scrap-book. 

Dot used frequently to write letters to Allan, to which I 
often added copious postscripts. I never could coax Dot 


ESTHER, 


94 - 

to write to Fred, though Fred sent him plenty of kind 
messages, and many a choice little parcel of scraps and 
odds and ends, such as Dot liked. 

Fred was getting on tolerably, he always told us. He 
had rooms in St John’s Wood, which he shared with two 
other artists ; he was working hard, and had some copying 
orders. Allan saw little of him ; they had no friends in 
common, and no community of taste. Never were brothers 
less alike or with less sympathy. 



M onths passed over, and found us the same busy, 
tranquil little household. I used to wonder how 
my letters could interest Allan so much as he said 
they did ; I could find so little to narrate. And, talking of 
that, it strikes me that we are not sufficiently thankful for 
the monotony of life. I speak advisedly ; I mean for the 
quiet uniformity and routine of our daily existence. In 
our youth we quarrel a little with its sameness and regu- 
larity ; it is only when the storms of sudden crises and 
unlooked-for troubles break over our thankless heads that 
we look back with regret to those still days of old. 

Nothing seemed to happen, nothing looked different. 
Mother grew a little stronger as the summer passed, and 
took a few more household duties on herself. Dot pined 
and pinched as the cold Aveather came on, as he always did, 
and looked a shivering, shabby Dot sometimes. Jack’s legs 
grew longer, and her frocks shorter, and we had to tie her 
hair to keep it out of her eyes, and she stooped more, and 
grew round-shouldered, which added to her list of beauties ; 
but no one expected grace from Jack. 

At the Cedars things went on as usual, except that Flurry 
left off calling me Miss Cameron, and took to Esther 
instead, somewhat scandalising Miss Lucas, until she began 


ESTHER. 


96 

taking to it herself. ‘ For you are so young, and you are 
more Flurry’s playfellow than her governess,’ she said 
apologetically ; ‘ it is no good being stiff when we are such 
old friends.’ And after that I always called her Miss 
Euth. 

‘Don’t you want to see Eoseberry, Esther?’ asked 
Flurry, one day — that was the name of the little seaside 
place where Mr. Lucas had a cottage. ‘ Aunt Euth says 
you must come down with us next summer ; she declares 
she has quite set her heart on it.’ 

‘ Oh, Flurry, that would be delightful ! — but how could 
I leave mother and Dot ? ’ I added in a regretful paren- 
thesis. That was always the burden of my song — Mother 
and Dot. 

‘ Dot must come, too,’ pronounced Flurry, decidedly ; 
and she actually proposed to Miss Euth at luncheon that 
‘Esther’s little brother should be invited to Eoseberry.’ 
Miss Euth looked at me with kindly amused eyes, as I grew 
crimson and tried to hush Flurry. 

‘ We shall see,’ she returned, in her gentle voice ; ‘ if 
Esther will not go without Dot, Dot must come too.’ But 
though the bare idea was too delightful, I begged Miss 
Euth not to entertain such an idea for a moment. 

I think Flurry’s little speech put a kind thought into 
Miss Euth’s head, for when she next invited us to drive 
with her, the grey horses stopped for an instant at Uncle 
Geoffrey’s door, and the footman lifted Dot in his little 
fur-lined coat, and placed him at Miss Euth’s side. And 
seeing the little lad’s rapture, and Flurry’s childish delight, 
she often called for him, sometimes when she was alone, 
for she said Dot never troubled her ; he could be as quiet 
as a little mouse when her head ached and she was dis- 
inclined to talk. 

I said nothing happened ; but one day I had a pleasant 
surprise, just when I did not deserve it ; for it was one of 
my fractious days — days of moods and tenses I used to call 
them — when nothing seemed quite right, when I was beset 
by that sort of grown-up fractiousness that wants to be 


V 1V/S// 1 HAD A DOT OF MY OWN: 97 

petted and put to bed, and bidden to lie still like a tired 
child. 

Winter had set in in downright earnest, and in those 
cold dark mornings early rising seemed an affront to the 
understanding, and a snare to be avoided by all right- 
minded persons ; yet notwithstanding all that, a perverse, 
fidgety notion of duty drove me with a scourge of mental 
thorns from my warm bed. For I was young and healthy, 
and why should I lie there while Deborah and Martha 
broke the ice in their pitchers, and came downstairs with 
rasped red faces and acidulated tempers ? I was thankful 
not to do likewise, to know I should hear in a few minutes 
a surly tap at the door, with the little hot-water can put 
down with protesting evidence. Even then it was hard 
work to flesh and blood, with no dewy lawn, no bird music 
now to swell my morning’s devotion with tiny chorus of 
praise ; only a hard frozen-up world, with a trickle of 
meagre sunshine running through it. 

But my hardest work w^as with Dot ; he used to argue 
drowsily with me while I stood shivering and awaiting his 
pleasure. Why did I not go down to the fire if I were 
cold ? he was not going to get up in the middle of the night 
to please any one ; never mind the robins — of which I 
reminded him gently — he wished he were a robin too, and 
could get up and go to bed with a neat little feather bed 
tacked to his skin — nice, cosy little fellows ; and then he 
would draw the bedclothes round his thin little shoulders, 
and try to maintain his position. 

He quite whimpered on the morning in question, when I 
lifted him out bodily — such a miserable Dot, looking like a 
starved dove in his white plumage ; but he cheered up at 
the sight of the fire and hot coffee in the snug parlour, and 
whispered a little entreaty for forgiveness as I stooped over 
him to make him comfortable. 

‘You are tired, Esther,’ said my mother tenderly, when 
she saw my face that morning ; ‘ you must not get up so 
early this cold weather, my dear.’ But I held my peace, 
for who would dress Dot, and what would become of Jack ? 

H 


ESTHER. 


98 

And then came a little lump in my throat, for I was tired 
and fractious. 

When I got to the Cedars a solemn stillness reigned in 
the nursery, and instead of an orderly room a perfect chaos 
of doll revelry prevailed. All the chairs were turned into 
extempore beds, and the twelve dolls, with bandaged heads 
and arms, were tucked up with the greatest care. 

Flurry met me with an air of great importance and her 
finger on her lip. 

‘Hush, Esther, you must not make a noise. I am 
Florence Nightingale, and these are all the poor sick and 
wounded soldiers ; look at this one, this is Corporal Trim, 
and he has had his two legs shot off.’ 

I recognised Corporal Trim under his bandages ; he was 
the very doll Flossy had so grievously maltreated and had 
robbed of an eye ; the waxen tip of his nose was gone, and 
a great deal of his flaxen wig besides — quite a caricature of 
a mutilated veteran. 

I called Flurry to account a little sternly, and insisted on 
her restoring order to the room. Flurry pouted and sulked; 
her heart was at Scutari, and her wits went wool-gathering, 
and refused dates and the multiplication table. To make 
matters worse, it commenced snowing, and there was 
no prosi)ect of a walk before luncheon. Miss Euth did 
not come down to that meal, and afterwards I sat and 
knitted in grim silence. Discipline must be maintained, 
and as Flurry would not work, neither would I play with 
her; but I do not know which of us was punished the 
most. 

‘Oh, how cross you are, Esther, and it is Christmas 
Eve ! ’ cried Flurry at last, on the verge of crying. It was 
growing dusk, and already shadows lurked in the corner of 
the room. Flurry looked at me so wistfully that I am 
afraid I should have relented and gone on a little with 
Juliet, only at that moment she- sprang up joyfully at the 
sound of her aunt’s voice calling her, and ran out to the 
top of the dark staircase. 

‘ We are to go down, you and I ; Aunt Euth wants us,’ 





“Allan! oh, Allan, Allan!” 


Page 101. 



♦ 


* 


t 



« 


9 




r. » 






f 0 





I 


•/ WISH I HAD A DOT OF MY OWNA lOI 

she exclaimed, laying violent hands on my work. I felt 
rather surprised at the summons, for Miss Kuth never 
called us at this hour, and it would soon be time for me to 
g' home. 

The drawing-room looked the picture of warm comfort as 
we entered it ; some glorious pine logs were crackling and 
spluttering in the grate, sending out showers of coloured 
sparks. 

Miss Euth was half-buried in her easy chair, with her 
feet on the white fleecy rug, and the little square tea-table 
stood near her, with its silver kettle and the tiny blue 
teacups. 

‘ You have sent for us. Miss Euth,’ I said, as I crossed 
the room to her ; but at that instant another figure I had 
not seen started up from a dark corner, and caught hold of 
me in rough, boyish fashion. 

‘ Allan ! oh, Allan ! Allan ! ’ my voice rising into a perfect 
crescendo of ecstacy at the sight of his dear dark face. 
Could anything be more deliciously unexpected? And 
there was Miss Euth laughing very softly to herself at my 
pleasure. 

* Oh, Allan, what does this mean,’ I demanded, ‘ when 
you told us there was no chance of your spending Christmas 
with us ? Have you been home ? Have you seen mother 
and Dot ? Have you come here to fetch me home ? ’ 

Allan held up his hands as he took a seat near me. 

‘ One question at a time, Esther. I had unexpected 
leave of absence for a week, and that is why you see me ; 
and as I wanted to surprise you all, I said nothing about it. 
I arrived about three hours ago, and as mother thought I 
might come and fetch you, why, I thought I would, and that 
you would be pleased to see me ; that is all my story,^ 
finished Allen, exchanging an amused glance with Miss 
Euth. They had never met before, and yet they seemed 
already on excellent terms. Allan made no sort of demur 
when Miss Euth insisted that we should both have some 
tea to warm us before we went. I think he felt at home 
with her at once. 


102 


ESTHER. 


Flurry seemed astonished at our proceeding. She 
regarded Allan for a long time very solemnly, until he won 
her heart by admiring Flossy ; then she condescended to 
converse with him. 

* Are you Esther’s brother, really ? * 

* Yes, Miss Florence — I believe that is your name.’ 

* Florence Emmeline Lucas,’ she repeated glibly. ^Fm 
Flurry for short ; nobody calls me Florence except father 
sometimes. It was dear mamma’s name, and he always 
sighs when he says it.’ 

‘ Indeed,’ returned Allan in an embarrassed tone ; and 
then he took Flossy on his knee and began to play with 
him. 

‘ Esther is rich,’ went on Flurry, rather sadly. * She has 
three brothers ; there’s Fred, and you, and Dot. I think 
she likes Dot best, and so do I. What a pity I haven’t a 
Dot of my own! No brothers; only father and Aunt 
Euth.’ 

‘ Poor little dear,’ observed Allan compassionately — he 
was always fond of children. His hearty tone made Flurry 
look up in his face. ‘ He is a nice man,’ she said to me 
afterwards ; ‘ he likes Flossy and me, and he was pleased 
when I kissed him.’ 

I did not tell Flurry that Allan had been very much 
astonished by her friendship. 

That is a droll little creature,’ he said, as we left the 
house together ; ‘ but there is something very attractive 
about her. You have a nice berth there, Esther. Miss 
Lucas seems a delightful person,’ an opinion in which I 
heartily agreed. Then he asked me about Mr. Lucas ; but 
I had only Flurry’s opinion to offer him on that subject, 
and he questioned me in his old way about my daily duties. 
‘ Mother thinks you are overworked, and you are certainly 
looking a little thin, Esther. Does not Carrie help you 
enough? And what is this I have just heard about the 
night-school ? ’ 

Our last grievance, which I had hitherto kept from 
Allan ; but of course mother had told him. It was so nice 


V If/SIf 1 HAD A DOT OF MY OWN: 


103 

to be walking there by his side, with the crisp white snow 
beneath our feet, and the dark sky over our heads ; no 
more fractiousness now, when I could pour out all my 
worries to Allan. 

Such a long story I told him ; but the gist of it was this: 
Carrie had been very imprudent; she would not let well 
alone, or be content with a sufficient round of duties. She 
worked hard with her pupils all day, and besides that she 
had a district and Sunday-school ; and now Mrs. Smedley 
had persuaded her to devote two evenings of her scanty 
leisure to the night-school. 

‘I think it is very hard and unjust to us,* I continued 
rather excitedly. ‘We have so little of Carrie — only just 
the odds and ends of time she can spare us. Mrs. Smedley 
has no right to dictate to us all, and to work Carrie in the 
way she does. She has got an influence over her, and she 
uses it for her own purposes, and Carrie is weak to yield so 
entirely to her judgment; she coaxes her and flatters 
her, and talks about her high standard and unselfish 
zeal for the work ; but I can’t understand it, and I don’t 
think it right for Carrie to be Mrs. Smedley’s parochial 
drudge.’ 

‘ I will talk to Carrie,’ returned Allan, grimly ; and he 
would not say another word on the subject. But I forgot 
all my grievances during the happy evening that followed. 

Allan was in such spirits ! As frolicsome as a boy, he 
would not let us be dull, and so his talk never flagged for a 
moment. Dot laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks 
when Allan kicked over the mending basket, and finally 
ordered Martha to take it away. When Carrie returned 
from the night-school, she found us all gathered round the 
fire in peaceful idleness, listening to Allan’s stories, with 
Dot on the rug, basking in the heat like a youthful 
salamander. 

I think Allan must have followed her up to her room, 
for just as I was laying my head on the pillow there was a 
knock at the door, and Carrie entered with her candle, fully 
dressed, and with a dark circle round her eyes. 


ESTHER. 


104 

She put down the light, so as not to wake Jack, and sat 
dowui by my side with a weary sigh. 

‘ Why did you all set Allan to talk to me ? ’ she began 
reproachfully. ‘ Why should I listen to him more than to 
you or mother ? I begin to see that a man’s foes are indeed 
of his own household.’ 

I bit my lips to keep in a torrent of angry words. I was 
out of patience with Carrie, even a saint ought to have 
common sense, I thought, and I was so tired and sleepy, 
and to-morrow w^as Christmas Day. 

‘ I could not sleep until I came and told you what I 
thought about it,’ she went on in her serious monotone. I 
don’t think she even noticed my exasperated silence. ‘ It 
is of no use for Allan to come and preach his worldly 
wisdom to me; we do not measure things by the same 
standard, he and I. You are better, Esther, but your hard 
matter of fact reasoning shocks me sometimes.’ 

‘ Oh, Carrie ! why don’t you create a world of your own,’ 
I demanded, scornfully, ‘ if we none of us please you — not 
even Allan ? ’ 

‘ Now you are angry without cause,’ she returned, gently, 
for Carrie rarely lost her temper in an argument ; she was 
so meekly obstinate that we could do nothing with her. 
‘ We cannot create our own world, Esther ; we can only do 
the best we can with this. When I am working so hard to 
do a little good in Milnthorpe, why do you all try to hinder 
and drag me back ? ’ 

‘ Because you are crcrdoing it, and wearing yourself out,’ 
I returned, determined to have my say ; but she stopped me 
with quiet peremptoriness. 

‘No more of that, Esther; I have heard it all from 
Allan. I am not afraid of wearing out ; I hope to die in 
harness. Why, child, how can you be so faint-hearted? We 
cannot die until our time comes.’ 

‘But when we court death it is suicide,’ I answered, 
stubbornly ; but Carrie only gave one of her sweet little 
laughs. 

‘You foolish Esther ! w^ho means to die, I should like to 


*/ mSJI 1 HAD A DOT OF MY OWNA I05 

know ? Why, the child is actually crying. Listen to me, 
you dear goosie. I was never so happy or well in my life.’ 
I shook my head sorrowfully, but she persisted in her state- 
ment. ‘ Mrs. Smedley has given me new life. How I do 
love that woman ! She is a perfect example to us — of un- 
selfishness and energy. She says I am her right hand, and 
I do believe she means it, Esther.’ But I only groaned in 
answer. ‘ She is doing a magnificent work in Milnthorpe,’ 
she continued, ‘ and I feel so proud that I am allowed to 
assist her. Do you know, I had twenty boys in my class 
this evening ; they would come to me, though Miss Miles’ 
class was nearly empty.’ And so she went on, until I felt 
all over prickles of suppressed nervousness. ‘ Well, good- 
night,’ she said, at last, when I could not be roused into any 
semblance of interest ; ‘ we shall see which of us be right 
by-and-by.’ 

‘ Yes, we shall see,’ I answered, drowsily ; but long after 
she left I muttered the words over and over to myself, ‘ W^e 
shall see.’ 

Yes, by-and-by the light of Divine truth would flash over 
our actions, and in that pure radiance every unworthy 
work would wither up to naught — every unblessed deed 
retreat into outer darkness. Which would be right, she 
or I ? 

I know only too well that, taking the world as a 
whole, we ought to encourage Christian parochial work, 
because too many girls who possess the golden oppor- 
tunity of leisure allow it to be wasted, and so commit 
the ‘ sin of omission ; ’ but there would have been quite 
as much good done had Carrie dutifully helped in our 
invalid home and cheered us all to health by her bright 
presence. And besides, I myself could then perhaps have 
taken a class at the night school if the stocking-mending 
and the other multitudinous domestic matters could have 
allowed it. 

The chimes of St. Barnabas were pealing through the 
midnight air before I slept. Above was the soft light of 
countless stars, sown broadcast over the dark skies. Christ- 


io6 


ESTHER. 


mas was come, and the angels’ song sounding over the 
sleeping earth. 

‘ Peace and goodwill to men ’ — peace from weary 
arguments and fruitless regret, peace on mourning hearts, 
on divided homes, on mariners tossing afar on wintry seas, 
and peace surely on one troubled girlish heart that waited 
for the breaking of a more perfect day. 



iss Ruth insisted on giving me a week’s holiday, 



that I might avail myself of Allan’s society ; and as 


dear mother still persisted that I looked pale and 
in need of change, Allan gave me a course of bracing 
exercise in the shape of long country walks with him and 
Jack, when we ploughed our way over half-frozen fields and 
down deep rutty lanes, scrambling over gates and through 
hedges, and returning home laden with holly berries and 
bright red hips and haws. 

On Allan’s last evening we were invited to dine at the 
Cedars — just Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I. Miss Ruth 
wrote such a pretty letter. She said that her brother 
thought it was a long time since he had seen his old friend 
Dr. Cameron, and that he was anxious to make acquaint- 
ance with his nephew and Flurry’s playfellow — this was 
Miss Ruth’s name for me, for we had quite dropped the 
governess between us. 

Allan looked quite pleased, and scouted my dubious 
looks ; he had taken a fancy to Miss Ruth, and wanted to 
see her again. He laughed when I said regretfully that 
it was his last evening, and that I would rather have spent 
it quietly at home with him. I was shy at the notion of 
my first dinner-party ; Mr. Lucas’s presence would make 
it a formal affair. 


io8 


' ESTHER. 


And then mother fretted a little that I had no evening 
dress ready. I could not wear white, so all my pretty 
gowns were useless ; but I cheered her up by my assuring 
her that such things did not matter in our deep mourning. 
And when I had dressed myself in my black cashmere, with 
soft white ruffles, and a little knot of Christmas roses and 
ferns which Carrie had arranged in my dress, mother gave 
a relieved sigh, and thought I should do nicely, and Allan 
twisted me round, and declared I was not half so bad after 
all, and that, though I was no beauty, I should pass, with 
which dubious compliment I was obliged to content myself. 

‘ I wish you were going in my stead, Carrie,’ I whispered, 
as she wrapped me in mother’s warm fleecy shawl, for the 
night was piercingly cold. 

‘ I would rather stay with mother,’ she answered quietly. 
And then she kissed me, and told me to be a good child, and 
not to be frightened of any one, in her gentle, elder-sisterly 
way. It never occurred to her to envy me my party or my 
pleasant position at the Cedars, or to compare her own 
uncongenial work with mine. These sorts of petty jealousies 
and small oppositions were impossible to her ; her nature 
was large and slightly raised, and took in wider vistas of 
life than ours. 

My heart sank a little when I heard the sharp vibrating 
sound of Mrs. Smedley’s voice as we were announced. I 
had no idea that the vicar and his wife were to be invited, 
but they were the only guests besides ourselves. I never 
could like Mrs. Smedley, and to the very last I never 
changed my girlish opinion of her. I have a curious in- 
stinctive repugnance to people who rustle through life ; 
whose entrances and exits are environed with noise ; who 
announce their intentions with the blast of the trumpet. 
Mrs. Smedley was a wordy woman. She talked much and 
well, but her voice was loud and jarring. She was not a 
bad-looking woman. I daresay in her younger days she 
had been handsome, for her features were very regular and 
her complexion good ; but I always said that she had worn 
herself thin with talking. She was terribly straight and 


MISS RUm^S NURSE. lOQ 

angular (I am afraid I called it bony) ; she had sharp high 
cheek bones, and her hands were long and lean. On this 
evening she wore a rich brown brocade, that creaked and 
rustled with every movement, and some Indian bangles, 
that jingled every time she raised her arm. I could not 
help comparing her to Miss Euth, who sat beside her, look- 
ing lovely in a black velvet gown, and as soft and noiseless 
as a little mouse. I am afraid Mrs.' Smedley’s clacking 
voice made her head ache terribly, for she grew paler and 
paler before the long dinner was over. As Miss Euth 
greeted me, I saw Mr. Lucas cross the room, with Flurry 
holding his hand. 

‘ Flurry must introduce me to her playfellow,’ he said, 
with a kind glance at us both, as the child ran up to me 
and clasped me close. 

‘ Oh, Esther, how I have wanted you and Juliet,’ she 
whispered ; but her father heard her. 

‘ I am afraid Flurry has had a dull week of it,’ he said, 
taking a seat beside us, and lifting the little creature to 
his knee. How pretty Flurry looked in her dainty white 
frock, all embroidery and lace, with knots of black ribbons 
against her dimpled shoulders, and her hair flowing round 
her like a golden veil ! Such a little fairy queen she 
looked ! 

‘ Father has been telling me stories,’ she observed, con- 
fidently ; ‘ they were very pretty ones, but I think I like 
Juliet best. And, oh! Esther, Flossy has broken Clemen- 
tina’s arm — that is your favourite doll, you know.’ 

‘ Has Miss Cameron a doll, too ? ’ asked Mr. Lucas, and 
I thought he looked a little quizzical. 

‘ I always call it Esther’s,’ returned Flurry, seriously. 
^She is quite fond of it, and nurses it sometimes at lessons.’ 

But I could bear no more. Mrs. Smedley was listen- 
ing, I was sure, and it did sound so silly and babyish, and 
yet I only did it to please Flurry. 

‘ I am afraid you think me very childish,’ I stammered, 
for I remembered that game of battledore and shuttlecock, 
and how excited I had been when I had achieved two 


no 


ESTHER. 


hundred. But as I commenced my little speech, with 
burning cheeks and a lip that would quiver with nervous- 
ness, he quietly stopped me. 

‘ I think nothing to your discredit, Miss Cameron. I am 
too grateful to you for making my little girl’s life less 
lonely. I feel much happier about her now, and so does 
my sister.’ And then, as dinner was announced, he turned 
away and offered his arm to Mrs. Smedley. 

Mr. Smedley took me in and sat by me, but after a few 
cursory observations he left me to my own devices and 
talked to Miss Euth. I was a little disappointed at this, 
for I preferred him infinitely to his wife, and I had always 
found his sermons very helpful ; but I heard afterwards 
that he never liked talking to young ladies, and did not 
know what to say to them. Carrie was an exception. 
She was too great a favourite with them both ever to be 
neglected. Mr. Lucas’s attention was fully occupied by 
his voluble neighbour. Now and then he addressed a word 
to me, that I might not feel myself slighted, but Mrs. 
Smedley never seconded his efforts. 

Ever since I had refused to teach in the Sunday-school 
she had regarded me with much head-shaking and severity. 
To her I was simply a frivolous, uninteresting young person, 
too headstrong to be guided. She always spoke pityingly 
of ‘ your poor sister Esther ’ to Carrie, as though I were 
in a lamentable condition. I know she had heard of 
Flurry’s doll, her look was so utterly contemptuous. 

To my dismay she commenced talking to Mr. Lucas 
about Carrie. It was very bad taste, I thought, with her 
sister sitting opposite to her ; but Carrie was Mrs. Smedley’s 
present hobby, and she always rode her hobby to death. 
No one else heard her, for they were all engaged with 
Miss Euth. 

‘ Such an admirable creature,’ she was saying, when my 
attention was attracted to the conversation ; ‘ a most lovely 
person and mind, and yet so truly humble. I confess I 
love her as though she were a daughter of my own.’ Fancy 
being Mrs. Smedley’s daughter ! Happily, for their own 


MISS RUTH^S NURSE. 


ITI 


sakes, she had no children. ‘ Augustus feels just the same ; 
he thinks so highly of her. Would you believe it, Mr. 
Lucas, that though she is a daily governess like her sister,’ 
with a sharp glance at poor little miserable me, ‘that that 
dear devoted girl takes house to house visitation in that 
dreadful Nightingale-lane and Kowley-street ? ’ Was it 
my fancy, or did Mr. Lucas shrug his shoulders dubiously 
at this ? As Mrs. Smedley paused here a moment, as though 
she expected an answer, he muttered, ‘ Very praiseworthy, 
I am sure,’ in a slightly bored tone. 

‘ She has a class in the Sunday-school besides, and now 
she gives two evenings a week to Mr. Smedley’s night- 
school. She is a pattern to all the young ladies of the 
place, as I do not fail to tell them.’ 

Why Mr. Lucas looked at me at that moment I do not 
know, but something in my face seemed to strike him, for 
he said, in a curious sort of tone, that meant a great deal, 
if I had only understood it — 

‘ You do not follow in your sister’s footsteps, then. Miss 
Cameron ? ’ 

‘No, I do not,’ I answered, abruptly, far too abruptly, I 
am afraid ; ‘human beings cannot be like sheep jumping 
through a hedge — if one jumps, they all jump, you know.’ 

‘ And you do not like that,’ with a little laugh, as though 
he were amused. 

‘ No, I must be sure it is a safe gap first, and not a short 
cut to nowhere,’ was my inexplicable response. I do not 
know if Mr. Lucas understood me, for just then Miss Euth 
gave the signal for the ladies to rise. The rest of the 
evening was rather a tedious affair. I played a little, but 
no one seemed specially impressed, and I could hear Mrs. 
Smedley’s voice talking loudly all the time. 

Mr. Lucas did not address me again ; he and Uncle 
Geoffrey talked politics on the rug. The Smedleys went 
early, and just as we were about to follow their example a 
strange thing happened ; poor Miss Euth was taken with 
one of her bad attacks. 

I was very frightened, for she looked to me as though 


II2 


ESTHER. 


she were dying ; but Uncle Geoffrey was her doctor, and 
understood all about it, and Allan quietly stood by and 
helped him. 

Mr. Lucas rang for nurse, who always waited on Miss 
Kuth as well as Flurry, but she had gone to bed with a 
sick headache. The housemaid was young and awkward, 
and lost her head entirely, so Uncle Geoffrey sent her away 
to get her mistress’s room ready, and he and Allan carried 
Miss Kuth up between them ; and a few minutes, afterwards 
I heard Allan’s whistle, and ran out into the hall. 

‘Good-night, Esther,’ he said, ^ hurriedly ; ‘I am just 
going to the surgery for some medicine. XJncle Geoffrey 
thinks you ought to offer your services for the night, as 
that girl is no manner of use ; you had better go up now.’ 

‘ But, Allan, I do not understand nursing in the least,’ 
for this suggestion terrified me, and I wanted the walk 
home with Allan, and a cosy chat when every one had gone 
to bed ; but, to my confusion, he merely looked at me and 
turned on his heel. Allan never wasted words on these 
occasions ; if people would not do their duty he washed his 
hands of them. I could not bear him to be disappointed in 
me, or think me cow^ardly and selfish, so I went sorrowfully 
up to Miss Euth’s room, and found Uncle Geoffrey coming 
in search of me. 

‘ Oh, there you are, Esther,’ he said, in his most business- 
like tone, taking it for granted, as a matter of course, that 
I was going to stay. ‘ I want you to help Miss Lucas to 
get comfortably to bed ; she is in great pain, and cannot 
speak to you just yet ; but you must try to assist her as 
well as you can. When the medicine comes, I will take a 
final look at her, and give you your orders.’ And then he 
nodded to me and went downstairs. There was no help for 
it ; I must do my little best, and say nothing about it. 

Strange to say, I had never been in Miss Euth’s room 
before. I knew where it was situated, and that its windows 
looked out on the garden, but I had no idea what sort of a 
place it was. 

It was not large, but so prettily fitted up, and bore the 


MISS RUTirS NURSE, 


II3 

stamp of refined taste, in every minute detail. I always 
think a room shows the character of its owner ; one can 
judge in an instant, by looking round and noticing the 
little ornaments and small treasured possessions. 

I once questioned Carrie rather curiously about Mrs. 
Smedley’s room, and she answered, reluctantly, that it was 
a large bare-looking apartment, with an ugly paper, and 
full of medicine chests and work-baskets; nothing very 
comfortable or tasteful in its arrangements. I knew it; 
I could have told her so without seeing it. 

Jliss Euth’s was very different ; it was perfectly crowded 
with pretty things, and yet not too many of them. And 
such beautiful pictures hung on the walls, most of them 
sacred : but evidently chosen with a view to cheerfulness. 
Just opposite the bed was The Flight into Egypt; a por- 
trait of Flurry ; and some sunny little landscapes, most of 
them English scenes, finished the collection. There were 
some velvet-lined shelves, filled with old china, and some 
dear little Dresden shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. A 
stand of Miss Euth’s favourite books stood beside her 
lounge chair, and her inlaid Indian desk was beside it. 

I was glad Miss Euth liked pretty things ; it showed such 
charming harmony in her character. Poor Miss Euth, she 
was evidently suffering severely, as she lay on her couch in 
front of the fire ; her hair was unbound, and fell in thick 
short lengths over her pillow, reminding me of Flurry’s 
soft fluff, but not quite so bright a gold. 

I was sadly frightened when I found she did not open her 
eyes or speak to me. I am afraid I bungled sadly over my 
task, though she was quite patient and let me do what I 
liked with her. It seemed terribly long before I had her 
safely in her bed. ^\Tien her head touched the pillows, 
she raised her eyelids with difficulty. 

‘ Thank you,’ she whispered ; ‘ you have done it so nicely, 
dear, and have not hurt me more than you could help,’ and 
then she motioned me to kiss her. Dear patient Miss 
Euth ! 

I had got the room all straight before Uncle Geoffrey 


ESTHER. 


1 14 

came back, and then Mr. Lucas was with him. Miss Euth 
spoke to them both, and took hold of her brother’s hand as 
he leant over her. 

‘Good-night, Giles; don’t worry about me; Esther is 
going to take care of me.’ She took it for granted, too. 
‘ Dr. Cameron’s medicine will soon take away the pain.’ 

Uncle Geoffrey’s orders were very simple ; I must watch 
her and keep up the fire, and give her another dose if she 
were to awake in two hours’ time ; and if the attack came 
on again, I must wake nurse, in spite of her headache, as 
she knew what to do ; and then he left me. 

‘You are very good to do this,’ Mr. Lucas said, as he 
shook hands with me. ‘ Have you been used to nursing ? ’ 

I told him, briefly, no ; but I was wise enough not to add 
that I feared I should never keep awake, in spite of some 
very strong coffee Uncle Geoffrey had ordered me ; I was so 
young, and with such an appetite for sleep. 

I took out my faded flowers when they left me, and said 
my prayers, and drank my coffee, and then tried to read 
one of Miss Euth’s books, but the letters seemed to dance 
before my eyes. I am afraid I had a short doze over 
Hiawatha, for I had a confused idea that I was Minnehaha 
Laughing- water ; and I thought the forest leaves were 
rustling round me, when a coal dropped out of the fire and 
startled me. 

It woke Miss Euth from her refreshing sleep ; but the 
pain had left her, and she looked quite bright and like 
herself. 

‘ I am a bad sleeper, and often lie awake until morning,’ 
she said, as I shook up her pillows and begged her to lie 
down again. ‘ No, it is no good trying again just now, I 
am so dreadfully wide awake. Poor Esther ! how tired you 
look, being kept out of your bed in this way.’ And she 
wanted me to curl myself up on the couch and go to sleep, 
but I stoutly refused; Uncle Geoffrey had said I was to 
watch her until morning. When she found I was inexor- 
able in my resolution to keep awake, she began to talk. 

‘ I wonder if you know what pain is, Esther — real 


MISS RUTH'S NURSE. 


II5 

positive agony ? ’ and when I assured her that a slight 
headache was the only form of suffering I had ever known, 
she gave a heavy sigh. 

* How strange, how fortunate, singular too, it seems to 
me. No pain ! that must be a foretaste of heaven ; ' and 
she repeated, dreamily, ‘no more pain there. Oh, Esther, 
if you knew how I long sometimes for heaven.’ 

The words frightened me, somehow ; they spoke such 
volumes of repressed longing. ‘ Dear Miss Kuth, why ? ’ 
I asked, almost timidly. 

‘ Can you ask why, and see me as I am to-night ? ’ she 
asked, with scarcely restrained surprise. ‘ If I could only 
bear it more patiently and learn the lesson it is meant to 
teach me, “ perfect through suffering,” the works of His 
chisel ! ’ And then she softly repeated the words, 

* Shedding soft drops of pity 
Where the sharp edges of the tool have been,* 

‘ I always loved that stanza so ; it gave me the first idea 
I ever quite grasped how sorry He is when He is obliged 
to hurt us.’ And as I did not know how to answer her, 
she begged me to fetch the book, and she would show me 
the passage for myself. 



J roas not like otl?er ©iris. 


I HAD no idea Miss Euth could 
talk as she did that night. She 
seemed to open her heart to me 
with the simplicity of a child, giving me a deeper insight 
into a very lovely nature. Carrie had hitherto been my 
ideal, but on this night I caught myself wondering once or 
twice whether Carrie would ever exercise such patience and 
uncomplaining endurance under so many crossed purposes, 
such broken work. 

‘ I was never quite like other people,’ she said to me when 
i had closed the book ; ‘ you know I was a mere infant in 
my nurse’s arms, when that accident happened.’ I nodded, 
for I had heard the sad details from Uncle Geoffrey ; how 
an unbroken pair of young horses had shied across the road 
just as the nurse who was carrying Miss Euth was at- 
tempting to cross it; the nurse had been knocked down 
and dreadfully injured, and her little charge had been 
violently thrown against the curb, and it had been thought 
by the doctor that one of the horses must have kicked her. 
For a long time she lay in a state of great suffering, and it 
was soon known that her health had sustained permanent 
injury. 

‘ I was always a crooked stunted little thing,’ she went 
on, with a lovely smile. ‘ My childhood was a sad ordeal ; 
it was just battling with pain, and making believe that I 


/ IVJS NO! LIKE OTHER GIRLS, II7 

did not mind. I used to try and bear it as cheerfully as 
I could, because mother fretted so over me ; but in secret 
I was terribly rebellious, often I cried myself to sleep 
with angry passionate tears, because I was not like other 
girls. 

‘ Do you care to hear all this ? ’ interrupting herself to 
look at my attentive face. It must ha,ve been a sufficient 
answer, for she went on talking without waiting for me 
to speak. 

‘ Giles was very good to me, but it was hard on him for 
his only sister to be such a useless invalid. He was active 
and strong, and I could not expect to keep him chained to 
my couch — I was always on a couch then — he had his 
friends and his cricket and football, and I could not expect 
to see much of him, I had to let him go with the rest. 

Things went on like this — outward submission and in- 
w^ard revolt — much affection, but little of the grace of 
patience, until the eve of my confirmation, when a stranger 
came to preach at the parish church. I never heard his 
name before, and I never have heard it since. People said 
he came from a distance; but I shall never forget that 
sermon to my dying day, or the silvery penetrating voice 
that delivered it. 

‘ It was as though a message from heaven w^as brought 
straight to me, to the poor discontented child who sat so 
heart- weary and desponding in the corner of the pew. I 
cannot even remember the text; it was something about 
the suffering of Christ, but I knew that it was addressed to 
the suffering members of His Church, and that he touched 
upon all physical and mental pain. And what struck me 
most was that he spoke of pain as a privilege, a high 
privilege and special training; something that called us 
into a fuller and inner fellowship with our suffering Head. 

‘ He told us the heathen might dread pain, but not the 
Christian ; that one really worthy of the name must be 
content to be the cross bearer, to tread really and literally 
in the steps of the Master. 

‘ What if He unfolded to us the mystery of pain ? Would 


ESTHER. 


Il8 

He not unfold the mystery of love too? What generous 
souls need fear that dread ordeal, that was to remove them 
from the outer to the inner court? Ought they not to 
rejoice that they were found worthy to share His reproach? 
He said much more than this, Esther, but memory is so 
weak and betrays one. But he had flung a torch into the 
darkest recesses of my soul, and the sudden light seemed to 
scorch and shrivel up all the discontent and bitterness; 
and, oh, the peace that succeeded : it was as though a 
drowning mariner left off struggling and buffeting with the 
waves that were carrying him to the shore, but just lay still 
and let himself be floated in.’ 

‘ And you were happier,’ I faltered, as she suddenly 
broke off, as though exhausted. 

‘ Yes, indeed,’ she returned softly. ‘ Pain was not any 
more my enemy, but the stern life companion He had sent 
to accompany me — the cross that I must carry out of love 
to Him ; oh, how different, how far more endurable ! I took 
myself in hand by-and-by when I grew older and had a 
better iudgment of things. I knew mine was a life apart, 
a separated life ; by that I mean that I should never know 
the joy of wifehood or motherhood, that I must create my 
own little world, my own joys and interests.’ 

^ And you have done so.’ 

‘Yes, I have done so ; I am a believer in happiness; I am 
quite sure in my mind that our beneficent Creator meant 
all His creatures to be happy, that whatever He gives them 
to bear, that He intends them to abide in the sunshine of 
His peace, and I determined to be happy. I surrounded 
myself with pretty things, with pictures that were pleasant 
to the eye and recalled bright thoughts. I made my books 
my friends, and held sweet satisfying communion with 
minds of all ages. I cultivated music, and found intense 
enjoyment in the study of Handel and Beethoven. 

‘ When I got a little stronger I determined to be a worker 
too, and glean a little sheaf or two after the reapers, if it 
were only a dropped ear now and then. 

‘ I took up the Zenana Mission. You have no idea how 


/ WAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, II9 

important I have grown, or what a vast correspondence I 
have kept up — the Society begin to find me quite useful to 
them — and I have dear unknown correspondents wdiom I 
love as old friends, and whose faces I shall only see, perhaps, 
when we meet in heaven. 

‘When dear Florence died — that was my sister-in-law, 
you know — I came to live with Giles, and to look after 
Flurry. I am quite a responsible woman, having charge 
of the household, and trying to be a companion to Giles ; 
confess now, Esther, it is not such a useless life after 
all?’ 

I do not know what I answered her. I have a dim re- 
collection that I burst into some extravagant eulogium or 
other, for she coloured to her temples and called me a 
foolish child, and begged me seriously never to say such 
things to her again. 

‘ I do not deserve all that, Esther, but you are too young 
to judge dispassionately; you must recollect that I have 
fewer temptations than other people. If I were strong and 
well I might be worldly too.’ 

‘ No, never,’ I answered, indignantly ; ‘ you would always 
be better than other people. Miss Euth — you and Carrie 
— oh, why are you both so good?’ with a despairing in- 
flection in my voice. ‘ How you must both look down 
on me.* 

‘ I know some one who is good, too,* returned Miss Euth, 
stroking my hair. ‘ I know a brave girl who works hard and 
wears herself out in loving service, who is often tired and 
never complains, who thinks little of herself, and yet who 
does much to brighten other lives, and I think you know her 
too, Esther ? ’ But I would not let her go on ; it was scant 
goodness to love her, and Allan, and Dot. How could any 
one do otherwise? And what merit could there be in 
that? 

But though I disclaimed her praise, I was inwardly rejoiced 
that she should think such things of me, and should judge 
me worthy of her confidence. She was treating me as 
though I were her equal and friend, and, to do her justice, 


120 


ESTHER, 


the idea of my being a governess never seemed to enter into 
hers or Mr. Lucas’s head. 

They always treated me from this time as a young friend, 
who conferred a favour on them by coming. My salary 
seemed to pass into my hand with the freedom of a gift. 
Perhaps it was that Uncle Geoffrey was such an old and 
valued friend, and that Miss Euth knew that in point of 
birth the Camerons were far above the Lucases, for we were 
an old family whom misfortune had robbed of our honours. 

However this may be, my privileges were many, and the 
yoke of service lay lightly on my shoulders. Poor Carrie, 
indeed, had to eat the bitter bread of dependence, and to 
take many a severe rebuke from her employer. Mrs. Thorne 
was essentially a vulgar minded- woman. She was affected 
by the adventitious adjuncts of life ; dress, mere station and 
wealth weighed largely in her view of things. Because we 
were poor, she denied our claim to equality ; because Carrie 
taught her children, she snubbed and repressed her, to keep 
her in her place, as though Carrie were a sort of Jack-in-the- 
box to be jerked back with every movement. 

When Miss Euth called on mother, Mrs. Thorne shrugged 
her shoulders, and wondered at the liberality of some people’s 
views. When we were asked to dinner at the Cedars (I sup- 
pose Mrs. Smedley told her, for Carrie never gossiped), Mrs. 
Thorne’s eyebrows were uplifted in a surprised waJ^ Her 
scorn knew no bounds when she called one afternoon and 
saw Carrie seated at Miss Euth’s little tea-table ; she com- 
]3letely ignored her through the visit, except to ask once after 
her children’s lessons. Carrie took her snubbing meekly, 
and seemed perfectly indifferent. Her quiet lady-like bear- 
ing seemed to impress Miss Euth most favourably, for when 
Carrie took her leave she kissed her, a thing she had never 
done before. I looked across at Mrs. Thorne, and saw her 
tea-cup poised half-way to her lips. She was transfixed with 
astonishment. 

I envy you your sister, Esther,’ said Miss Euth, busy- 
ing herself with the silver kettle. ‘ She is a dear girl — a 
very dear girl.’ 


/ WAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. ' 12 1 

* Humph ! ’ ejaculated Mrs. Thorne. She was past wwds, 
and soon after she took her departure in a high state of 
indignation and dudgeon. 

I did not go home the next day. Allan came to say good- 
bye to me, Uncle Geoffrey followed him, and he and Mr. 
Lucas both decided that I could not be spared. Nurse was 
somewhat ailing, and Uncle Geoffrey had to prescribe for 
her too ; and as Miss Euth recovered slowly from these 
attacks, she would be very lonely, shut up in her room. 

Miss Euth was overjoyed when I promised to stay with 
her as long as they wanted me. Allan had satisfied my 
scruples about Jack and Dot. 

‘ They all think you ought to stay,’ he said. ‘ Mother was 
the first to decide that. Martha has promised to attend to 
Dot in your absence. She grumbled a little, and so did he ; 
but that will not matter. Jack must look after herself,’ 
finished this very decided young man, who was apt to settle 
feminine details in rather a summary fashion. 

If mother said it was my duty to remain, I need not 
trouble my head about minor w^orries ; the duty in hand, 
they all thought, was with Miss Euth, and with Miss Euth 
I would stay. 

‘ It will be such a luxury to have you, Esther,’ she said, 
in her old bright way. ‘ My head is generally bad after 
these attacks, and I cannot read much to myself, and with 
all my boasted resolution the hours do seem very long. 
Flurry must spare you to me after the morning, and we 
will have nice quiet times together.’ 

So I took possession of the little room next hers, and put 
away the few necessaries that mother had sent me, with a 
little picture of Dot, that he had drawn for me ; but I little 
thought that afternoon that it would be a whole month 
before I left it. 

I am afraid that long visit spoilt me a little ; it was so 
pleasant resuming some of the old luxuries. Instead of the 
cold bare room where Jack and I slept, for, in spite of all 
our efforts, it did look bare in the winter, I found a bright 
fire burning in my cosy little chamber, and casting warm 


122 


ESTHER. 


ruddy gleams over the white china tiles ; the wax candles 
stood ready for lighting on the toilet table ; my dressing 
gown was airing in company with my slippers ; everything 
so snug and essential to comfort, to the very eider-down 
quilt that looked so tempting. 

Then in the morning, just to dress myself and go down 
to the pleasant dining-room, with the great logs spluttering 
out a bright welcome, and the breakfast table loaded with 
many a dainty. No shivering Dot to coerce into good 
humour; no feckless Jack to frown into order; no grim 
Deborah to coax and help. Was it very wicked that I felt 
all this a relief ? Then how deliciously the days passed ; 
the few lessons with Flurry, more play than work ; the in- 
spiriting ramble ending generally with a peep at mother 
and Dot ! 

The cosy luncheons, at which Flurry and I made our 
dinners, where Flurry sat in state at the bottom of the 
table and carved the pudding, and gave herself small airs 
of consequence, and then the long quiet afternoons with 
Miss Euth. 

I used to write letters at her dictation, and read to her, 
not altogether dry reading, for she dearly loved an amusing 
book. It was the Chronicles of Carlingford we read, I 
remember ; and how she praised the whole series, calling 
them pleasant wholesome pictures of life. We used to be 
quite sorry when Ehoda, the rosy-cheeked housemaid, 
brought up the little brass kettle, and I had to leave off to 
make Miss Euth’s tea. Mr. Lucas always came up when 
that was over, to sit with his sister a little and tell her all 
the news of the day, while I went down to Flurry, whom I 
always found seated on the library sofa, with her white 
frock spreading out like wings, waiting to sit with father 
while he ate his dinner. 

I always had supper in Miss Euth’s room, and never left 
her again till Nurse came in to put her comfortable for the 
night. Flurry used to run in on her way to bed to hug us 
both and tell us what father had said. 

‘ You are father’s treasure, his one ewe lamb, are you 


/ IVAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, 1 23 

not ? ’ said Miss Euth once, as she drew the child fondly 
towards her ; and when she had gone, running off with her 
merry laugh, she spoke almost with a sigh of her brother’s 
love for the child. 

‘ Giles’s love for her almost resembles idolatry. The 
child is like him, but she has poor Florence’s eyes and her 
bright happy nature. I tremble sometimes to think what 
would become of him if he lost her. I have lived long 
enough to know that God sometimes takes away ‘‘the desire 
of a man’s eyes, all that he holds most dear.” ’ 

‘ But not often,’ I whispered, kissing her troubled brow, 
for a look of great sadness came over her face at the idea ; 
but her words recurred to me by-and-by when I heard a 
short conversation between Flurry and her father. 

After the first fortnight Miss Euth regained strength a 
little, and though still an invalid was enabled to spend 
some hours downstairs. Before I left the Cedars she had 
resumed all her old habits, and was able to preside at her 
brother’s dinner-table. 

I joined them on these occasions, both by hers and Mr. 
Lucas’s request, and so became better acquainted with 
Flurry’s father. 

One Sunday afternoon I was reading in the drawing-room 
window, and trying to finish my book by the failing wintry 
light, when Flurry’s voice caught my attention ; she was 
sitting on a stool at her father’s feet turning over the pages 
of her large picture Bible. Mr. Lucas had been dozing, I 
think, for there had been no conversation. Miss Euth had 
gone upstairs. 

‘Father,’ said the little one, suddenly, in her eager voice, 
* I do love that story of Isaac. Abraham was such a good 
man to offer up his only son, only God stopped him, you 
know. I wonder what his mother would have done if 
he had come home, and told her he had killed her boy. 
Would she have believed him, do you think ? Would she 
have ever liked him again ? ’ 

‘My little Florence, what a strange idea to come into 
your small head.’ I could tell from Mr. Lucas’s tone that 


ESTHER, 


124 

such an idea had never occurred to him. What would Sarah 
have said as she looked upon her son’s destroyer? Would 
she have acquiesced in that dread obedience, that sacrificial 
rite? 

‘ But, father dear,’ still persisted Flurry, ‘ I can’t help 
thinking about it ; it would have been so dreadful for poor 
Sarah. Do you think you would have been like Abraham, 
father ; would you have taken the knife to slay your only 
child ? ’ 

‘ Hush, Florence,’ cried her father, hoarsely, and he sud- 
denly caught her to him and kissed her, and bade her run 
away to her Aunt Euth with some trifling message or other. 
I could see her childish question tortured him, by the 
strained look of his face, as he approached the window. 
He had not known I was there, but when he saw me he 
said almost irritably, only it was the irritability of sup- 
pressed pain — 

‘ What can put such thoughts in the child’s head ? I 
hope you do not let her think too much. Miss Cameron ?’ 

‘ Most children have strange fancies,’ I returned, quietly. 
‘ Flurry has a vivid imagination ; she thinks more deeply 
than you could credit at her age ; she often surprises me 
by the questions she asks. They show an amount of 
reasoning power that is very remarkable.’ 

‘ Let her play more,’ he replied, in a still more annoyed 
voice. ‘ I hate prodigies ; I would not have Flurry an 
infant phenomenon for the world. She has too much 
brain-power ; she is too excitable ; you must keep her back 
Miss Cameron.’ 

‘ I will do what I can,’ I returned humbly ; and then, as 
he still looked anxious and ill at ease, I went on, ‘ I do 
not think you need trouble about Flurry's precocity; 
children often say these things. Dot, my little brother — 
Frankie, I mean — would astonish you with some of his 
remarks. And then there was Jack,’ warming up with my 
subject ; ‘ Jack used to talk about harps and angels in the 
most heavenly way, till mother cried and thought she 
would die young ; and look at Jack now — a strong healthy 


/ IVAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 1 25 

girl, without an ounce of imagination.’ I could see Mr. Lucas 
smile quietly to himself in the dusk, for he knew Jack, and 
had made more than one quizzical remark on her ; but I 
think my observation comforted him a little, for he said no 
more, only when Flurry returned he took her on his knees 
and told her about a wonderful performing poodle he had 
seen, as a sort of pleasant interlude after her severe Biblical 
studies. 



HAPTEPw Xm. 

‘lt)e l^tioe JlTisseb I^ainc Bustle.' 


O NE other conversation lingered 
long in my memory, and it 
took place on my last evening 
at the Cedars. On the next day I was going home to 
mother and Dot, and yet I sighed. I sighed ! Oh, Esther, 
for shame ! 

It was just before dinner. Miss Euth had been sum- 
moned away to see an old servant of the family, and Flurry 
had run after her. Mr. .Lucas was standing before the fire, 
warming himself after the manner of Englishmen, and I 
sat at Miss Euth's little table working at a fleecy white 
shawl, that I was finishing to surprise mother. 

There was a short silence between us, for though I was 
less afraid of Mr. Lucas than formerly, I never spoke to 
him unless he addressed me ; but, looking up from my 
work a moment, I saw him contemplating me in a quiet, 
thoughtful way, but he smiled pleasantly when our eyes 
met. 

‘ This is your last evening, I think, Miss Cameron ? ’ 

‘ Indeed it is,’ I returned, with a short sigh. 

‘ You are sorry to leave us ? ’ he questioned, very 
kindly; for I think he had heard the sigh. 

‘ I ought not to be sorry,’ I returned, stoutly ; * for I am 
going home.’ 

‘ Oh ! and home means everything with you ! ’ 


HAVE MISSED DAME BUSTLE: 


127 

*Ifc means a great deal,’ knitting furiously, for I was 
angry at myself for being so sorry to leave ; ‘ but Miss 
Euth has been so good to me that she has quite spoiled me, 
I shall not be half so fit for all the hard work I have at 
home.’ 

‘ That is a pity,’ he returned, slowly, as though he were 
revolving not my words, but some thoughts in his own 
mind. ‘ Do you know I was thinking of something when 
you looked up just now. I was wondering why you should 
not remain with us altogether.’ I put down my knitting 
at that, and looked him full in the face ; I was so intensely 
surprised at his words. ‘You and my sister are such 
friends ; it would be pleasant for her to have you for a 

constant companion, for I am often busy and tired, and ’ 

He paused as though he would have added something, but 
thought better of it. ‘ And she is much alone. A young 
lively girl would rouse her and do her good, and Flurry 
would be glad of you.’ 

‘ I should like it very much,’ I returned, hesitatingly, ‘ if 
it were not for mother and Dot.’ Just for the moment the 
offer dazzled me and blinded my common sense. Always 
to occupy my snug little pink chamber ; to sit with Miss 
Euth in this warm luxurious drawing-room ; to be waited 
on, petted, spoilt, as Miss Euth always spoilt people. No 
wonder such a prospect allured a girl of seventeen. 

‘ Oh, they will do without you,’ he returned, with a man’s 
indifference to female argument. He and Allan were alike 
in the facility with which they would knock over one’s pet 
theories. ‘ You are like other young people, Miss Cameron ; 
you think the world cannot get on without you. When you 
are older you will get rid of this idea,’ he continued, turning 
amused eyes on my youthful perplexity. ‘ It is only th 
young who think one cannot do without them,’ finished this 
worldly-wise observer of human nature. 

Somehow that stung me and put me on my mettle, and 
in a moment I had arrayed the whole of my feeble forces 
against so arbitrary an arrangement of my destiny. 

‘ I cannot help what other young people think,’ I said, in 


128 


ESTHER. 


rather a perverse manner ; ^ they may be wise or foolish as 
they like, but I am sure of one thing, that mother and Dot 
cannot do without me.’ 

I am afraid my speech was rather rude and abrupt, but 
Mr. Lucas did not seem to mind it. His eyes still retained 
their amused twinkle, but he condescended to argue the 
point more seriously with me, and sat down in Miss Euth’s 
low chair, as though to bring himself more on a level 
with me. 

‘ Let me give you a piece of advice. Miss Cameron ; never 
be too sure of anything. Granted that your mother will 
miss you very badly at first (I can grant you that, if you 
like), but there is your sister to console her ; and that irre- 
sistible Jack — how can your mother, a sensible woman in 
her way, let a girl go through life with such a name ? ’ 

‘ She will not answer to any other,’ I returned, half 
offended at this piece of plain speaking ; but it was true we 
had tried Jacqueline, and Lina, and Jack had always re- 
mained obstinately deaf. 

‘ Well, well, she will get wiser some day, Tvhen she gro'ws 
into a woman ; she will take more kindly to a sensible 
name then ; but as I was saying, your mother may miss you, 
but all the same she may be thankful to have you so well 
established and in so comfortable a position. You will be 
a member of the family, and be treated as well as my sister 
herself ; and the additional salary may be welcome just 
now, when there are school-bills to pay.’ 

It seemed clear common sense, put in that way, but not 
for one instant would I entertain such a proposition 
seriously. The more tempting it looked, the more I dis- 
trusted it. Mr. Lucas might be worldly-wise, but here I 
knew better than he. Would a few pounds more reconcile 
mother to my vacant place, or cheer Dot’s blank face when 
he knew Esther had deserted him ? 

‘ You are very good,’ I said, trying to keep myself well in 
hand, and to speak quietly — but now my cheeks burnt with 
the effort ; ‘ and I thank you very much for your kind 
thought, but ’ 


^PVE HAVE MISSED DAME BUSTLE: 1 29 

' Give me no buts/ he interrupted, smiling ; ‘ and don’t 
thank me for a piece of selfishness, for I was thinking most 
of my sister and Flurry.’ 

‘ But all the same I must thank you,’ I returned, firmly ; 
* and I would like you to believe how happy I should have 
been if I could have done this conscientiously.’ 

‘ Is it really so impossible?’ still incredulously, 

‘Eeally and truly, Mr. Lucas. I am worth little to 
other people, I know, but in their estimation I am worth 
much. Dot would fret badly ; and though mother would 
make the best of it — she always does— she would never get 
over the missing, for Carrie is always busy, and Jack is so 
young, and ’ 

‘ There is the dinner bell, and Euth still chattering with 
old Nurse. That is the climax of our argunient, I dare 
say no more, you are so terribly in earnest. Miss Cameron, 
and so evidently believe all you say ; but all the same, 
mothers part with their daughters sometimes, very gladly, 
too, under other circumstances ; but there, we will let the 
subject drop for the present.’ And then he looked again 
at me with kindly amused eyes, refusing to take umbrage 
at my obstinacy ; and then, to my relief, Miss Euth inter- 
rupted us. 

I felt rather extinguished for the rest of the evening. I 
did not dare tell Miss Euth, for fear she would upbraid me 
for my refusal. I knew she would side with her brother, 
and would think I could easily be spared from home. And 
if Carrie would only give up her parish work, and fit into 
the niche of the daughter of the house, she could easily 
fulfil all my duties. If — a great big ‘if ’it was — an ‘if’ 
that would spoil Carrie’s life, and destroy all those sweet 
solemn hopes of hers. No, no ; I must not entertain such 
a thought for a moment. 

Mr. Lucas had spoilt my last evening for me, and I 
think he knew it, for he came to my side as I was putting 
away my work, and spoke a few contrite words. 

‘ Don’t let our talk worry you,’ he said, in so low a voice 
that Miss Euth could not hear his words. ‘ I am sure you 

K 


ESTHER, 


130 

were quite right to decide as you did — judging from your 
point of view, I mean, for of course I hold a different 
opinion. If you ever see fit to change your decision, you 
must promise to come and tell me.’ And of course I pro- 
mised unhesitatingly. 

Miss Euth followed me to my room, and stood by the fire 
a few minutes. 

‘ You look grave to-night, Esther, and I flatter myself 
that it is because you are sorry that your visit has come 
to an end.’ 

‘ And you are right,’ I returned, throwing my arms 
round her light little figure. Oh, how dearly I had grown 
to love her ! ‘ I would like to be always with you. Miss 

Euth; to wait upon you and be your servant. Nothing 
would be beneath me — nothing. You are fond of me a 
little, are you not?’ for somehow I craved for some ex- 
pression of affection on this last night. Miss Euth was 
very affectionate, but a little undemonstrative sometimes 
in manner. 

‘ I am very fond of you, Esther,’ she replied, turning her 
sweet eyes to me, ‘ and I shall miss my kind, attentive 
nurse more than I can say. Poor Nurse Gill is getting 
quite jealous of you. She says Flurry is always wild to 
get to her playfellow, and will not stay with her if she can 
help it, and that now I can easily dispense with her services 
for myself. I had to smoothe her down, Esther ; the poor 
old creature quite cried about it, but I managed to console 
her at last.’ 

‘ I was always afraid that Mrs. Gill did not like me,’ I 
returned, in a pained voice, for somehow I always disliked 
hurting people’s feelings. 

* Oh, she likes you very much ; you must not think that. 
She says Miss Cameron is a very superior young lady, high 
in manner, and quite the gentlewoman. I think Nurse’s 
expression was “ quite the lady. Miss Euth.” ’ 

‘ I have never been high in manner to her,’ I laughed. 

‘ We have a fine gossip sometimes over the nursery fire. 
I like Mrs. Gill, and would not injure her feelings for the 


HAVE MISSED DAME BUSTLE: I3I 

world. She is so kind to Dot, too, when he comes to play 
with Flurry.* 

‘ Poor little man, he will be glad to get his dear Esther 
back,* she returned, in a sympathising voice ; and then 
she bade me good-night, and begged me to hasten to bed, 
as St. Barnabas had just chimed eleven. 

I woke the next morning with a weight upon me, as 
though I were expecting some ordeal; and though I 
scolded myself vigorously for my moral cowardice, and 
called myself a selfish, lazy girl, I could not shake off 
the feeling. 

Never had Miss Kuth seemed so dear to me as she had 
that day. As the hour approached for my departure I felt 
quite unhappy at the thought of even leaving her for 
those few hours. 

‘We shall see you in the morning,’ she said, quite 
cheerfully, as I knelt on the rug, drawing on my warm 
gloves. I fancied she noticed my foolish, unaccountable 
depression, and would not add t j it by any expression of 
regret. 

‘ Oh, yes,* I returned, with a sort of sigh, as I glanced 
round the room where I had passed the evenings so 
pleasantly of late, and thought of the mending basket at 
home. I was naughty, I confess it ; there were absolutely 
tears in my eyes, as I ran out into the cold dusk of a 
February evening. 

The streets were wet and gleaming, the shop lights 
glimmered on pools of rain-water ; icy drops pattered down 
on my face ; the brewers* horses steamed as they passed with 
the empty dray; the few foot passengers in High-street 
shuffled along as hastily as they could ; even Polly Patti- 
son’s rosy face looked puckered up with cold as she put up 
the shutters of the Dairy. 

Uncle Geoffrey’s voice hailed me on the doorstep. 

‘ Here you are, little woman. Welcome home ! We 
have missed Dame Bustle dreadfully ; * and as he kissed me 
heartily I could not help stroking his rough, wet coat 
sleeve in a sort of penitent way. 


ESTHER. 


132 

‘ Have you really missed me ? It is good of you to say 
BO, Uncle Geoff.’ 

‘ The house has not felt the same,’ he returned, pushing 
me in before him, and bidding me shake my cloak as I took 
it off in the passage. 

And then the door opened, and dear mother came out to 
help me. As I felt her gentle touch, and heard Dot's feeble 
‘Hurrah! here is Esther!’ the uncomfortable, discontented 
feelings vanished, and my better self regained the mastery. 
Yes, it was homely and shabby ; but oh ! so sunny and 
warm ! I forgot Miss Kuth when Dot’s beautiful little 
face raised itself from the cushions of the sofa, on which I 
had placed him, and he put his arms round me as I knelt 
down beside him, and whispered that his back was bad, 
and his legs felt funny, and he was so glad I was home 
again, for Martha was cross, and had hard scrubby hands, 
and hurt him often, though she did not mean it. This 
and much more did Dot whisper in his childish confidence. 

Then Jack came flying in, with Smudge, as usual, in 
her arms, and a most tumultuous welcome followed. And 
then came Carrie, with her soft kiss and few quiet words. 
I thought she looked paler and thinner than when I left 
home, but prettier than ever ; and she, too, seemed pleased 
to see me. I took off my things as quickly as I could — not 
stopping to look round the somewhat disorderly room, 
where J ack had worked her sweet will for the last month — 
and joined the family at the tea-table. And afterwards I 
sat close to mother, and talked to her as I mended one of 
Dot’s shirts. 

Now and then my thoughts strayed to a far different 
scene — to a room lighted up with wax candles in silver 
sconces, and the w^hite china lamp that ahvays stood on 
Miss Euth’s little table. 

I could see in my mind’s eye the trim little figure in 
black silk and lace ruffles, the diamonds gleaming on the 
small white hands. Flurry would be on the rug in her 
white frock, playing with the Persian kittens ; most likely 
her father would be watching her from his armchair. 


‘ PVE HAVE MISSED DAME BUSTLE! 


133 

I am afraid I answered mother absently, for, looking up, 
I caught her wistful glance at me. Carrie was at her night 
school, and Uncle Geoffrey had been called out. Jack was 
learning her lessons in the front parlour, and only Dot 
kept us company. 

‘ You must find it very different from the Cedars,’ she 
said, regretfully; ‘all that luxury must have spoiled you for 
home, Esther. Don’t think I am complaining, my love, 
if I say you seem a little dull to-night.’ 

‘ Oh, mother ! ’ flushing up to my temples with shame 
and irritation at her words ; and then another look at the 
worn face under the widow’s cap restrained my momentary 
impatience. Dot, who was watching us, struck in in his 
childish way, 

‘ Do you like the Cedars best, Essie ? Would you rather 
be with Flurry than me ? ’ 

My own darling ! The bare idea was heresy, and acted 
on me like a moral douche. 

‘ Oh ! mother and Dot,’ I said, ‘ how can you both talk 
so ? I am not spoiled — I refuse to be spoiled. I love the 
Cedars, but I love my own dear little home best.’ And at 
this moment I believed my own words. ‘ Dot, how can you 
be so faithless — how could I love Flurry best ? And what 
would Allan say? You are our own little boy, you know; he 
said so, and you belong to us both.’ And Dot’s childish 
jealousy vanished. As for dear mother, she smiled at me 
in a sweet, satisfied way. 

‘ That is like our own old Esther. You were so quiet all 
tea-time, my dear, that I fancied something was amiss. 
It is so nice having you working beside me again,’ she went 
on, with a little gentle artifice. ‘I have missed your bright 
talk so much in the evenings.’ 

‘ Has Carrie been out much ? ’ I asked ; but I knew what 
the answer would be. 

‘ Generally three evenings in the week,’ returned mother, 
with a sigh, ‘ and her home evenings have been so ^ en- 
grossed of late. Mrs. Smedley gives her all sorts of things 
to do — mending and covering books ; I hardly know what.’ 


ESTHER. 


134 

‘ Carrie never sings to us now/ put in Dot. 

‘ She is too tired, that is what she always says ; but I 
cannot help thinking a little music would be a healthy 
relaxation for her ; but she will have it that with her it is 
waste of time,’ said mother. 

Waste of time to sing to mother ! I broke my thread in 
two with indignation at the thought. Yes, I was wanted 
at home, I could see that; Deborah told me so in her 
taciturn way, when I went to the kitchen to speak to her 
and Martha. 

I had sad work with my room before I slept that night, 
when Jack was fast asleep; and I was tired out when I 
crept shivering into my cold bed. I hardly seemed to 
have slept an hour before I saw Martha’s unlovely face 
bending over me with the flaming candle, so different from 
Miss Euth’s trim maid. 

‘ Time to get up. Miss Esther, if you are going to dress 
Master Dot before breakfast. It is mortal cold, to be sure, 
and raw as raw ; but I have brought you a cup of hot tea, 
as you seemed a bit down last night.’ 

^ The good creature ! I could have hugged her in my 
girlish gratitude. The tea was a delicious treat, and put 
new heart into me. I was quite fresh and rested when I 
went into Dot’s little room. He opened his eyes widely 
when he saw me. 

‘ Oh, Esther ! is it really you, and not that ugly old 
Martha ? ’ he cried out, joyfully. ‘ I do hate her, to be 
sure. I will be a good boy, and you shall not have any 
trouble.’ And thereupon he fell to embracing me as 
though he would never leave off. 



RXIY. 

piaging in ilom ©bier’s (Srounb. 


W ^E had had an old-fashioned 
winter — weeks of frost to de- 
light the hearts of the young 
skaters of Milnthorpe ; clear, cold 
bracing days, that made the young blood in our veins 
tingle with the sense of new life and buoyancy ; long, dark 
winter evenings, when we sat round the clear red fire, 
and the footsteps of the few passengers under our window 
rang with a sort of metallic sound on the frozen pave- 
ments. 

What a rush of cold air when the door opened, what 
snow-powdered garments we used to bring into Deborah’s 
spotless kitchen ! Dot used to shiver away from my kisses, 
and put up a little mittened hand to ward me off. ‘ You 
are like a snow-woman, Essie,’ he would say. ‘ Your face 
is as hard and cold and red as one of the haws Flurry 
brought me.’ 

‘ She looks as blooming as a rose in June,’ Uncle Geoffrey 
answered once, when he heard Dot’s unflattering com- 
parison. ‘ Be off, lassie, and take off those wet boots ; ’ 
but as I closed the door he added to mother, ‘ Esther is 
improving, I think ; she is less angular, and with that clear 
fresh colour she looks quite bonnie.’ 


ESTHER. 


136 

Quite bonnie. Oh, Uncle Geoffrey, you little knew how 
that speech pleased me. 

Winter lasted long that year, and then came March, 
rough and boisterous and dull as usual, with its cruel 
east wind and the dust, ‘a peck of which was worth a 
king’s ransom,’ as father used to say. 

Then came April, variable and bright, with coy smiles 
for ever dissolving in tears ; and then May in full blossom 
and beauty, giving promise of summer days. 

We used to go out in the lanes. Flurry and I, to gather 
the spring flowers that Miss Euth so dearly loved. We 
made a primrose basket once for her room, and many a 
cowslip ball for Dot, and then there were dainty little 
bunches of violets for mother and Carrie, only Carrie took 
hers to a dying girl in Nightingale-lane. 

The roads round Milnthorpe were so full of lovely things 
hidden away among the mosses, that I proposed to Flurry 
that we should collect basketfuls for Carrie’s sick people. 
Miss Euth was delighted with the idea, and asked Jack and 
Dot to join us, and we all drove down to a large wood some 
miles from the town, and spent the whole of the spring 
afternoon playing in a new Tom Tidler’s ground, picking 
up gold and silver. The gold lay scattered broadcast on 
the land, in yellow patches round the trunks of trees, or 
beyond in the gleaming meadows ; and we worked until the 
primroses lay heaped up in the baskets in wild confusion, 
and until our eyes ached with the yellow gleam. I could 
hear Dot singing softly to himself as he picked indus- 
triously. When he and Flurry got tired they seated them- 
selves like a pair of happy little birds on the low bough of 
a tree. I could hear them twittering softly to each other, 
as they swung, with their arms interlaced, backwards and 
forwards in the sunlight ; now and then I caught fragments 
of their talk. 

‘ We shall have plenty of flowers to pick in heaven,’ Dot 
was saying, as I worked near them. 

‘ Oh, lots,’ returned Flurry, in an eager voice, ‘ red and 
white roses, and lilies of the valley, miles of them — millicns 



“We shall have plenty of flowers to pick in heaven. 

Page 136.. 




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PLAYING IN TOM TIDIER' S GROUND, 


139 

and millions, for all the little children, you know. What a 
lot of children there will be, Dot, and how nice to do 
nothing but play with them, always and for ever.’ 

‘ We must sing hymns, you know,’ returned Dot, with 
a slight hesitation in his voice. Being a well-brought up 
little boy, he was somewhat scandalised by Flurry’s views ; 
they sounded somewhat earthly and imperfect. 

‘ Oh^ we can sing as we play,’ observed Flurry, irre- 
verently ; she was not at all in a heavenly mood this after- 
noon. ‘We can hang up our harps, as they do in the 
Psalms, you know, and just gather flowers as long as we 
like.’ 

‘ It is nice to think one’s back won’t ache so much over 
it, there,’ replied poor Dot, who was quite weak and limp 
from his exertions. ‘ One of the best things about heaven 
is, though it all seems nice enough, that we shan’t be tired. 
Think of that. Flurry — never to be tired ! ’ 

‘ I am never tired, though I am sleepy sometimes,’ 
responded Flurry, with refreshing candour. ‘You forget 
the nicest part, you silly boy, that it will never be dark. 
How I do hate the dark, to be sure.’ * 

Dot opened his eyes widely at this. ‘ Do you ? ’ he 
returned, in an astonished voice; ‘that is because you are 
a girl, I suppose. I never thought much about it. I think 
it is nice and cosy when one is tucked up in bed. I always 
imagine the day is as tired as I am, and that she has been 
put to bed too, in a nice, warm, dark blanket.’ 

‘ Oh, you funny Dot,’ crowed Flurry. But she would 
not talk any more about heaven ; she was in wild spirits, 
and when she had swung enough she commenced pelting 
Dot with primroses. Dot bore it stoutly for a while, until 
he could resist no longer, and there was a flowery battle 
going on under the trees. 

It was quite late in the day when the tired children 
arrived home. 

Carrie fairly hugged Dot when the overflowing baskets 
were placed at her feet. 

‘ These are for all the sick women and little children,’ 


ESTHER. 


140 

answered Dot, solemnly; ‘we worked so hard, Flurry 
and 1/ 

‘You are a darling,* returned Carrie, dimpling with 
pleasure. 

I believe this was the sweetest gift we could have made 
her. Nothing for herself would have pleased her half so 
much. She made Jack and me promise to help her carry 
them the next day, and we agreed, nothing loth. We had 
quite a festive afternoon in Nightingale-lane. 

I had never been with Carrie before in her rounds, and I 
was wonderfully struck with her manner to the poor folk ; 
there was so much tact, such delicate sympathy in all 
she said and did. I could see surly faces soften and 
rough voices grow silent as she addressed them in her 
simple way. Knots of boys and men dispersed to let 
her pass. • 

‘ Bless her sweet face ! ’ I heard one old road-sweeper say ; 
and all the children seemed to crowd round her involun- 
tarily, and yet, with the exception of Dot, she had never 
seemed to care for children. 

I watched her as she moved about the squalid rooms, 
arranging the primroses in broken bowls, and even teacups, 
with a sort of ministering grace I had never noticed in her 
before. Mother had always praised her nursing. She said 
her touch was so soft and firm, and her movement so noise- 
less ; and she had once advised me to imitate her in this ; 
and as I saw the weary eyes brighten and the languid head 
raise itself on the pillow at her approach, I could not but 
own that Carrie was in her natural sphere. 

As we returned home with our empty baskets, she told 
us a great deal about her district, and seemed grateful to 
us for sharing her pleasure. Indeed, I never enjoyed a 
talk with Carrie more ; I never so thoroughly entered into 
the interest of her work. 

One June afternoon, when I returned home a little 
earlier than usual, for Flurry had been called down to 
go out with her father, I found Miss Ruth sitting with 
mother. 


PLAYING IN TOM TIDLER'S GROUND. 


I4I 

I had evidently disturbed a most engrossing conver- 
sation, for mother looked flushed and a little excited, 
as she always did when anything happened out of the 
common, and Miss Kuth had the amused expression I knew 
BO well, 

‘ You are earlier than usual, my dear,’ said mother, with 
an odd little twitch of the lip, as though something pleased 
her. But here Dot, who never could keej) a secret for five 
minutes, burst out in his shrill voice, 

‘Oh, Essie, what do you think? You will never believe 
it — you and I and Flurry are going to Koseberry for six 
whole weeks.’ 

‘You have forgotten me, you ungrateful child,’ returned 
Miss Euth in a funny tone ; ‘ I am nobody, I suppose, so 
long as you get your dear Esther and Flurry.’ 

Dot was instinctively a little gentleman. He felt he had 
made a mistake ; so he hobbled up to Miss Kuth, and laid 
his hand on hers: ‘We couldn’t do without you — could w^e, 
Essie ? ’ he said in a coaxing voice. ‘ Esther does not like 
ordering dinners ; she often says so, and she looks ready to 
cry when Deb brings her the bills. It will be ever so much 
nicer to have Miss Kuth, won’t it, Esther?’ But I was 
too bewildered to answer him. 

‘ Oh, mother, is it really true ? Can you really spare us, 
and for six whole weeks ? Oh, it is too delightful ! But 
Carrie, does she not want the change more than I ? ’ 

I don’t know why mother and Miss Kuth exchanged 
glances at this ; but mother said rather sadly, 

‘ Miss Lucas has been good enough to ask your sister, 
Esther ; she thought you might perhaps take turns ; but I 
am sorry to say Carrie will not hear of it. She says it will 
spoil your visit, and that she cannot be spared,’ 

‘ Our parochial slave-driver is going out of town,’ put in 
Miss Euth drily. She could be a little sarcastic some- 
times when Mrs. Smedley’s name w^as implied. In her 
inmost heart she had no more love than I for the bustling 
lady. 

‘ She is going to stay with her niece at Newport, and so 


ESTHER. 


142 

her poor little subaltern, Carrie, cannot be absent from her 
post. One day I mean to give a piece of my mind to that 
good lady,’ finished Miss Euth, with a malicious sparkle 
in her eyes. 

‘ Oh, it’s no use talking,’ sighed mother, and there was 
quite a hopeless inflexion in her voice. ‘ Carrie is a little 
weak, in spite of her goodness. She is like her mother in 
that — the strongest mind governs her. I have no chance 
against Mrs. Smedley.’ 

‘ It is a shame,’ I burst out ; but Miss Euth rose from 
her chair, still smiling. 

‘You must restrain your indignation till I have gone, 
Esther,’ she said, in mock reproof. * Your mother and I 
have done all we could, and have coaxed and scolded for 
the last half-hour. The Smedley influence is too strong 
for us. Never mind, I have captured you and Dot ; 
remember, you must be ready for us on Monday week ; ’ 
and with that she took her departure. 

Mother followed me up to my room, on pretence of look- 
ing over Jack’s things, but in reality she wanted a chat 
with me. 

The dear soul was quite overjoyed at the prospect of my 
holiday ; she mingled lamentations over Carrie’s obstinacy 
with expressions of pleasure at the treat in store for Dot 
and me. 

* And you will not be lonely without us, mother ? ’ 

‘ My dear, how could I be so selfish ! Think of the 
benefit the sea air will be to Dot ! And then, I can trust 
him so entirely to you.’ And thereupon she began an 
anxious inquiry as to the state of my w^ardrobe, which 
lasted until the bell rang. 

But, in spite of the delicious anticipations that filled 
me, I was not wholly satisfied, and when mother had said 
good-night to us I detained Carrie. 

She came back a little reluctantly, and asked me what 
I wanted with her. She looked tired, almost worn out, 
and the blue veins were far too perceptible on the smooth, 
white forehead. I noticed for the first time a hollowness 


PLAYING IN TOM TIDLER^S GROUND. 


M3 

about the temples ; the marked restlessness of an over- 
conscientious mind was wearing out the body ; the delicacy 
of her look filled me with apprehension. 

‘ Oh, Carrie ! ’ I said, vehemently, ‘ you are not well ; 
this hot weather is trying you. Do listen to me, darling. 
I don’t want to vex you, but you must promise me to come 
to Koseberry.’ 

To my surprise she drew back with almost a frightened 
look on her face; well, not that exactly, but a sort of 
scared, bewildered expression. 

^ Don’t, Esther. Why will none of you give me any 
peace? Is it not enough that mother and Miss Lucas 
have been talking to me, and now you must begin! 
Do you know how much it costs me to stand firm against 
you all? You distress me, you wear me out with your 
talk.’ 

‘ Why cannot we convince you ? ’ I returned, with a sort 
of despair. ‘ You are mother’s daughter, not Mrs. 
Smedley’s : you owe no right of obedience to that 
woman.’ 

‘ How you all hate her ! ’ she sighed. * I must look for 
no sympathy from any of you — your one thought is to 
thwart me in every way.’ 

‘ Carrie ! ’ I almost gasped, for she looked and spoke so 
unlike herself. 

‘ I don’t mean to be unkind,’ she replied in a softening 
tone ; ‘ I suppose you all mean it for the best. Once for all, 
Esther, I cannot come to Eoseberry. I have promised Mrs. 
Smedley to look after things in her absence, and nothing 
would induce me to forfeit my trust.’ 

‘ You could write to her and say you were not well,’ 
I began ; but she checked me almost angrily. 

‘ I am well, I am quite well ; if I long for rest, if the 
prospect of a little change would be delightful, I sup- 
pose I could resist even these temptations. I am not 
worse than many other girls ; I have work to do, and 
must do it. No fears of possible breakdowns shall frighten 
me from my duty. Go and enjoy your holiday, and do not 


ESTHER. 


144 

worry about me, Esther.’ And then she kissed me, and 
took up her candle. 

I was sadly crestfallen, but no arguments could avail, I 
thought ; and so I let her go from me. And yet if I had 
known the cause of her sudden irritability, I should not so 
soon have given up all hope. I little knew how sorely she 
was tempted ; how necessary some brief rest and change of 
scene was to her overwrought nerves. If I had only been 
patient and pleaded with her, I think I must have per- 
suaded her ; but, alas ! I never knew how nearly she had 
yielded. 

There was no sleep for Dot that night. I found him in a 
fever of excitement, thumping his hot pillows and flinging 
himself about in vain efforts to get cool. It was no good 
scolding him ; he had these sleepless fits sometimes ; so I 
bathed his face and hands, and sat down beside him, and 
laid my head against the pillow, hoping that he would 
quiet down by-and-by. But nothing would prevent his 
talking. 

‘ I wish I were out with the flowers in the garden,’ he 
said ; ‘ I think it is stupid being tucked up in bed in the 
summer. Allan is not in bed, is he ? He says he is often 
called up, and has to cross the quadrangle to go to a great 
bare room where they bind up broken heads. Should you 
like to be a doctor, Essie ? ’ 

‘ If I were a man,’ I returned, confidently, ‘ I should be 
either a clergyman or a doctor ; they are the grandest and 
noblest of professions. One is a cure of bodies, and the 
other is a cure of souls.’ 

‘ Oh, but they hurt people,’ observed Dot, shrinking a 
little ; ‘ they have horrid instruments they carry about with 
them.’ 

‘ They only hurt people for their own good, you silly 
little boy. Think of all the dark, sick rooms they visit, 
and the poor, helpless people they comfort. They spend 
their lives doing good, healing dreadful diseases, and 
relieving pain.’ 

‘ I think Allan’s life will be more useful than Fred’s,’ 


PLAYING IN TOM TIDIER' S GROUND. 


145 

observed Dot. Poor little boy! Constant intercourse with 
grown-up people was making him precocious. He used to 
say such sharp, shrewd things sometimes. 

I sighed a little when he spoke of Fred. I could imagine 
him loitering through life in his velveteen coat, doing httle 
spurts of work, but never settling down into thorough hard 
work. 

Allan’s descriptions of his life were not very encouraging. 
His last letter to me spoke a little dubiously about Fred’s 
prospects. 

‘ He is just a drawing-master, and nothing else,’ wrote 
Allan. ‘ Uncle Geoffrey’s recommendations have obtained 
admittance for him into one or two good houses, and I hear 
he has hopes of Miss Hemming's school in Bayswater. 
Not a very enlivening prospect for our elegant Fred! 
Fancy that very superior young man sinking into a draw- 
ing-master ! So much for the hanging committee and the 
picture that is to represent the Cameron genius. 

‘ I went down to Acacia-road on Thursday evening, and 
dimly perceived Fred across an opaque cloud of tobacco 
smoke. He and some kindred spirits were ta l king art 
jargon in this thick atmosphere. 

‘ Fred looked a Bohemian of Bohemians in his gaudy 
dressing-gown and velvet smoking-cap. His hair is longer 
than ever, and he has become aesthetic in his tastes. 
There was broken china enough to stock a small shop. I 
am afraid I am rather too much a Philistine for their 
notions. I got some good downright stares and shrugs 
over my tough John Bull tendencies. 

‘ Tell mother Fred is all right, and keeping out of debt, 
and so one must not mind a few harmless vagaries.* 

‘ Broken china, indeed ! ’ muttered Uncle Geoff when I 
had finished reading this clause. ‘ Broken fiddlesticks ! 
Why, the lad must be weak in his head to spend his money 
on such rubbish.’ Uncle Geoffrey was never very civil to 
Fred. 

Dot did not say any more, and I began a long story, to 
keep his tongue quiet. As it was purposely uninteresting, 

L 


ESTHER. 


146 

and told in a monotonous voice, it soon had the effect of 
making him drowsy. When I reached this point, I stole 
softly from the room. It was bright moonlight when I lay 
down in bed, and all night long I dreamt of a rippling sea 
and broad sands, over which Dot and I were walking, hand 
in hand. 



I T was a lovely evening when we arrived at Eoseberry. 

‘ We lead regular hermit lives at the Brambles, away 
from the haunts of men,’ observed Miss Euth ; but I was 
too much occupied to answer her. Dot and I were peeping 
through the windows of the little omnibus that was convey- 
ing us and our luggage to the cottage. Miss Euth had a 
pretty little pony carriage for country use ; but she would 
not have it sent to the station to meet us — the omnibus 
would hold us all, she said. Nurse could go outside ; the 
other two servants who made up the modest establishment 
at the Brambles had arrived the previous day. 

Eoseberry was a straggling little place, without much 
pretension to gentility. A row of white lodging-houses, 
with green verandahs, looked over the little parade ; there 
was a railed-in green enclosure before the houses, where a 
few children played. 

Half a dozen bathing-machines were drawn up on the 
beach ; beyond was the Preventive station, and the little 
white cottages where the Preventive men lived, with neat 
little gardens in front. 

The town was rather like Milnthorpe, for it boasted only 
one long street. A few modest shops, the Blue Boar Inn, 
and a bow- windowed house, with ‘ Library ’ painted on it in 


ESTHER, 


148 

large characters, were mixed up with pleasant-looking 
dwelling houses. The little grey church was down a 
country road, and did not look as though it belonged to 
the town, but the schools were in High-street. Beyond 
Eoseberry were the great rolling downs. 

We had left the tiny parade and the lodging-houses be- 
hind us, and our little omnibus seemed jolting over the 
beach — I believe they called it a road, but it w^as rough and 
stony, and seemed to lead to the shore. It was quite a sur- 
prise when we drove sharply round a low, rocky point, and 
came upon a low grey cottage, with a little garden running 
down to the beach. 

Truly a hermit’s abode, the Brambles; not another 
house in sight ; low, white chalky cliffs, with the green 
downs above them, and, far as we could see, a steep 
beach, with long fringes of yellow sands, with the grey 
sea breaking softly in the distance, for it was low tide, 
and the sun had set. 

‘ Is this too lonely for you, Esther ? ’ asked Miss Euth, as 
we walked up the pebbly path to the porch. It was a deep 
stone porch, with seats on either side, and its depth gave 
darkness to the little square hall, with its stone fireplace 
and oak settles. 

‘ What a delicious place ! ’ was my answer, as I followed 
her from one room into another. The cottage was a perfect 
nest of cosy little rooms, all very tiny, and leading into 
each other. 

There was a snug dining-room that led into Mr. Lucas’s 
study, and beyond that two little drawing-rooms, very 
small, and simply though prettily furnished. They wwe 
perfect summer rooms, with their Indian matting and 
muslin curtains, with wicker chairs and lounges, and 
brackets with Miss Euth’s favourite china. 

Upstairs the arrangements were just as simple ; not a 
carpet was to be seen, only dark polished floors and strips 
of Indian matting, cool chintz coverings, and furniture of 
the simplest maple and pine wood — a charming summer 
retreat, fitted up with unostentatious taste. There was a 


LIFE AT THE BRAMBLES. 


149 

tiny garden at the back, shut in by a low chalk cliff, a rough 
zigzag path that goats might have climbed led to the downs, 
and there was a breach where we could enjoy the sweet air 
and wide prospect. 

It was quite a cottage garden. All the old-fashioned 
flowers bloomed there ; little pink cabbage roses, Turks- 
caps, lilies, lupins, and monkshood, and columbines. Ever- 
lasting peas and scarlet-runners ran along the wall, and 
wide-lipped convolvuli, scarlet weeds of poppies flaunted 
beside the delicate white harebells, sweetwilliam and gilly- 
flowers, and humble southernwood, and homely pinks and 
fragrant clove carnations, and pansies of every shade in 
purple and golden patches. 

‘ Oh, Essie, it reminds me of our cottage ; why, there are 
the lilies and the beehives, and there is the porch where you 
said you should sit on summer evenings and mend Allan’s 
socks.’ And Dot leaned on his crutches and looked round 
with bright wide-open eyes. 

Our little dream cottage ; well, it was not unlike it, only 
the sea and the downs and the low chalk cliffs were added. 
How Dot and I grew to love that garden ! There was an 
old medlar tree, very gnarled and crooked, under which 
Miss Euth used to place her little tea-table; the wicker 
chairs were brought out, and there we often used to spend 
our afternoons, with little blue butterflies hovering round 
us, and the bees humming among the sweet thyme and 
marjoram, and sometimes an adventurous sheep looking 
down on us from the cliff. 

We led a perfect gipsy life at the Brambles ; no one called 
on us, the Vicar of Koseberry was away, and a stranger had 
taken his duty ; no interloper from the outer world broke 
the peaceful monotony of our days, and the sea kept up its 
plaintive music night and day, and the larks sang to us, and 
the busy humming of insect life made an undertone of 
melody, and in early mornings the little garden seemed 
steeped in dew and fragrance. We used to rise early, and 
after breakfast Flurry and I bathed. There was a little 
bathing-room beyond the cottage, with a sort of wooden 


ESTHER. 


ISO 

bridge running over the beach, and there Flurry and I 
would disport ourselves like mermaids. 

After a brisk run on the sands or over the downs, we 
joined Miss Ruth on the beach, where we worked and 
talked, or helped the children build sand-castles, and deck 
them with stone and seaweeds. What treasures we col- 
lected for Carrie’s Sunday-scholars ; what stores of bright- 
coloured seaweed — or sea flowers, as Dot persisted in calling 
them — and heaps of faintly-tinged shells ! 

Flurry’s doll family had accompanied us to the Brambles. 
* The poor dear things wanted change of air ! ’ Flurry had 
decided ; and, in spite of my dissuasion, all the fair waxen 
creatures and their heterogeneous wardrobe had been con- 
signed to a vast trunk. 

Flurry’s large family had given her infinite trouble when 
we settled for our mornings on the beach. She travelled 
up and down the long stony hillocks to the cottage until 
her little legs ached, to fetch the twelve dolls. When they 
were all deposited in their white sun-bonnets under a big 
umbrella, to save their complexions, which, notwithstand- 
ing, suffered severely, then, and then only, would Flurry 
join Dot on the narrow sands. 

Sometimes the tide rose, or a sudden shower came on, 
and then great was the confusion. Once a receding wave 
carried out Corporal Trim, the most unlucky of dolls, to 
sea. Flurry wrung her hands and wept so bitterly over 
this disaster that Miss Ruth was quite frightened, and 
Flossy jumped up and licked his little mistress’s face and 
the faces of the dolls by turns. 

‘ Oh, the dear thing is drownded,’ sobbed Flurry, as Cor- 
poral Trim floundered hopelessly in the surge. Dot’s soft 
heart was so moved by her distress that he hobbled into the 
water, crutches and all, to my infinite terror. 

‘ Don’t cry. Flurry ; I’ve got him by the hair of his head,’ 
shouted Dot, valiantly shouldering the dripping doll. Flurry 
ran down the beach with the tears still on her cheeks, and 
took the wretched corporal and hugged him to her bosom. 

* Oh, my poor drownded Trim,’ cried Flm'ry, tenderly, 


LIFE AT THE BRAMBLES. 


15I 

and a strange procession formed to the cottage. Flurry with 
the poor victim in her arms, and Flossy jumping and bark- 
ing delightedly round her, and snatching at the wet rags ; 
Dot also, wet and miserable, toiling up the beach on his 
crutches ; Miss Kuth and I following with the eleven dolls. 

The poor corporal spent the rest of the day watching his 
own clothes drying by the kitchen fire, where Dot kept him 
company ; Flurry trotted in and out, and petted them both. 
I am afraid Dot, being a boy, often found the dolls a 
nuisance, and could have dispensed with their company. 
There was a grand quarrel once when he flatly refused to 
carry one. ‘ I can’t make believe to be a girl,’ said Dot, 
curling his lip with infinite contempt. 

We used to spend our afternoons in the garden. It was 
cooler than the beach, and the shade of the old medlar w^as 
refreshing. We sometimes read aloud to the children, but 
oftener they were working in their little gardens, or playing 
with some tame rabbits that belonged to Flurry. Dot 
always hobbled after Flurry wherever she went ; he was 
her devoted slave. Flurry sometimes treated him like one 
of her dolls, or put on little motherly airs, in imitation of 
Miss Euth. 

‘ You are tired, my dear boy ; pray lean on me,’ we heard 
her once say, propping him with her childish arm. ‘ Sit 
down in the shade, you must not heat yourself ; ’ but Dot 
rather resented her care of him, after the fashion of boys, 
but on the whole they suited each other perfectly. 

In the evenings we always walked over the downs or 
drove with Miss Kuth in her pony carriage through the 
leafy lanes, or beside the yellow cornfields. The children 
used to gather large nosegays of poppies and cornflowers, 
and little pinky convolvuli. Sometimes we visited a farm- 
house where some people lived whom Miss Kuth knew. 

Once we stopped and had supper there, a homely meal 
of milk, and brown bread, and cream cheese, with a golden 
honeycomb to follow, which we ate in the farmyard kitchen. 
What an exquisite time we had there, sitting in the low 
window seat, looking over a bright clover field. A brood 


ESTHER. 


152 

of little yellow chickens ran over the red-brick floor, a black 
retriever and her puppies lay before the fire — fat black 
puppies with blunt noses and foolish faces, turning over on 
their backs, and blundering under everyone’s feet. 

Dot and Flurry went out to see the cows milked, and 
came back with long stories of the dear little white, curly- 
tailed pigs. Flurry wrote to her father the next day, and 
begged that he would buy her one for a pet. Both she and 
Dot were indignant when we told them the little pig they 
admired so much would become a great ugly sow like 
its mother. 

Mrs. Blake, the farmer’s wife, took a great fancy to Dot, 
and begged him to come again, which both the children 
promised her most earnestly to do. They both carried off 
spoils of bright red apples to eat on the way. 

It was almost dark as we drove home through the narrow 
lanes ; the hedgerows glimmered strangely in the dusk ; 
a fresh sea-ladened wind blew in our faces across the downs, 
the lights shone from the Preventive station, and across 
the vague mist glimmered a star or two. How fragrant 
and still it .was, only the soft washing of the waves on the 
beach to break the silence ! 

Miss Euth shivered a little as we rattled down the road 
leading to the Brambles. Dorcas, mindful of her mistress’s 
delicacy, had lighted a little fire in the inner drawing-room, 
and had hot coffee waiting for us. 

It looked so snug and inviting that the children left it 
reluctantly to go to bed ; but Miss Euth was inexorable. 
This was our cosy horn* ; all through the day we had to 
devote ourselves to the children — we used to enjoy this 
quiet time to ourselves. Sometimes I wrote to mother or 
Carrie, or we mutually took up our books ; but oftener we 
sat and talked as w'e did on this evening, until Nurse came 
to remind us of the lateness of the hour. 

Mr. Lucas paid us brief visits ; he generally came down 
on Saturday evening and remained until Monday. Miss 
Euth could never coax him to stay longer ; I think his 
business distracted him, and kept his trouble at bay. In 


LIFE AT THE BRAMBLES. 


153 

this quiet place he would have grown restless. He had 
bought the Brambles to please his wife, and she, and not 
Miss Euth, had furnished it. They had spent happy sum- 
mers there when Flurry was a baby. The little garden 
had been a wilderness until then ; every flower had been 
planted by his wife, every room bore witness to her charm- 
ing taste. No wonder he regarded it with such mingled 
feelings of pain and pleasure. 

Mr. Lucas made no difference to our simple routine. 
Miss Euth and Flurry used to drive to the little station to 
meet him, and bring him back in triumph to the seven 
o’clock nondescript meal, that was neither dinner nor tea 
nor supper, but a compound of all. I used to go up with 
the children after that meal, that he and Miss Euth might 
enjoy their chat undisturbed. When I returned to the 
drawing-room Miss Euth was invariably alone. 

‘ Giles has gone out for a solitary prowl,’ she would say ; 
and he rarely returned before we went upstairs. Miss 
Euth knew his habits, omd seldom waited up to say good- 
night to him. 

‘ He likes better to be alone when he is in this mood,’ 
she would say sometimes. Her tact and cleverness in 
managing him were wonderful ; she never seemed to watch 
him, she never let him feel that his morbid fits were noticed 
and humoured, but all the same she knew when to leave 
him alone, and when to talk to him ; she could be his bright 
companion, or sit silently beside him for hours. On 
Sunday mornings Mr. Lucas always accompanied us to 
church, and in the afternoon he sat with the children on 
the beach. Dot soon got very fond of him, and would talk 
to him in his fearless way, about anything that came into 
his head ; Miss Euth sometimes joined them, but I always 
went apart with my book. 

Mr. Lucas was so good to me that I could not bear to 
hamper him in the least by my presence ; with grown-up 
people he was a little stiff and reserved, but with children 
he was his true self. 

Flurry doted on her father, and Dot told me' in confidence 


ESTHER, 


154 

that ‘he was the nicest man he had ever known except 
Uncle Geoffrey.’ 

I could not hear their talk from my nest in the cliff, but 
I am afraid Dot’s chief occupation was to hunt the little 
scurrying crabs into a certain pool he had already fringed 
with seaweed. I could see him and Flurry carrying the 
big jelly-fishes, and floating them carefully. They had left 
their spades and buckets at home, out of respect for the 
sacredness of the day; but neither Flurry’s clean w’hite 
frock nor Dot’s new suit hindered them from scooping out 
the sand with their hands, and making rough and ready 
ramparts to keep in their prey. 

Mr. Lucas used to lie on the beach with his straw hat 
over his eyes, and watch their play, and pet Flossy. 
When he was tired of inaction he used to call to the children, 
and walk slowly and thoughtfully on. Flurry used to run 
after him. 

‘ Oh, do wait for Dot, father,’ she would plead ; nothing 
would induce her to leave her infirm and halting little play- 
fellow. One day, when Mr. Lucas was impatient of his 
slow progress, I saw him shoulder him, crutches and all, 
and march off with him. Dot clapping his hands and 
shouting with delight. That was the only time I followed 
them ; but I was so afraid Dot was a hindrance, and wanted 
to capture him, I walked quite a mile before I met them 
coming back. 

Mr. Lucas was still carrying Dot ; Flurry was trotting 
beside him, and pretending to use Dot’s crutches. 

‘ We have been ever so far, Essie,’ screamed Dot when 
he caught sight of me. ‘ We have seen lots of seagulls, 
and a great cave where the smugglers used to hide.’ 

^ Oh, Dot, you must not let Mr. Lucas carry you,’ I 
said, holding out my arms to relieve him of his burden. 
‘ You must stay with me, and I will tell you a story.’ 

‘ He is happier up here, aren’t you, Frankie boy ? ’ re- 
turned Mr. Lucas, cheerfully. 

‘ Oh, but he will tire you,’ I faltered. 

‘ Tire me, this little bundle of bones ! ’ peeping at Dot 



‘‘He is happier up here. Aren^t you, Frankie boy?^’ 

Page 154 






LIFE AT THE BE AMBLES. 


157 

over his shoulder ; ‘ why, I could walk miles with him. 
Don’t trouble yourself about him, Miss Esther. We under- 
stand each other perfectly.’ 

And then he left me, walking with long, easy strides over 
the uneven ground, with Flurry running to keep up with him. 

They used to go on the downs after tea, and sit on the 
little green beach, while Miss Euth and I went to church. 

Miss Euth never would use her pony carriage on Sunday. 
A boy used to draw her in a wheel-chair. She never 
stayed at home unless she was compelled to do so. I never 
knew anyone enjoy the service more, or enter more fully 
into it. 

No matter how out of tune the singing might be, she 
always joined in it with a fervour that quite surprised me. 
‘Depend upon it, Esther,’ she used to say, ‘it is not the 
quality of our singing that matters, but how much our 
heart joins with the choir. Perfect praise and perfect music 
cannot be expected here; but I like to think old Betty’s 
cracked voice, when she joins in the hymns, is as sweet to 
angels’ ears as our younger notes.’ 

The children always waited up for us on Sunday 
evening, and afterwards Miss Euth would sing with them ; 
sometimes Mr. Lucas would walk up and down the gravel 
paths listening to them, but oftener I could catch the red 
light of his cigar from the cliff seat. 

I wonder what sad thoughts came to him as the voices 
floated out to him, mixed up with the low ripple of waves 
on the sand. 

‘ Where loyal hearts and true ’ — they were singing that, I 
remember; Flurry in her childish treble. And Flurry’s 
mother, lying in her quiet grave — did the mother in 
paradise, I wonder, look down from her starry place on her 
little daughter singing her baby hymn, and on that lonely 
man, listening from the cliff seat in the darkness? 



S^f}e Smugglers’ (Caue. 


T he six weeks passed only too rapidly, but Dot and I 
were equally delighted when Miss Euth petitioned for 
a longer extension of absence, to which dear mother 
returned a willing consent. 

A little note was enclosed for me in Miss Euth’s letter. 

‘ Make your mind quite easy, my dear child,’ she wrote, 
‘ we are getting on very well, and really Jack is improving, 
and does all sorts of little things to help me ; she keeps her 
room tidier, and I have not had to find fault with her for 
a week. 

‘ We do not see much of Carrie ; she comes home looking 
very pale and fagged ; your uncle grumbles sometimes, but 
I tell him words are wasted, the Smedley influence is 
stronger than ever. 

‘ But you need not think I am dull, though I do miss 
my bright, cheery Esther, and my darling Frankie. Jack 
and I have nice walks, and Uncle Geoffrey takes me some- 
times on his rounds, and two or three times Mr. Lucas has 
sent the carriage to take us into the country ; he says the 
horses need exercise, now his sister is away, but I know it 
is all his kindness and thought for us. I will willingly spare 
you a little longer, and am only thankful that the darling 
boy is deriving so much benefit from the sea air.’ 


THE SMUGGLERS^ CAVE. 


159 

Dear, unselfish mother, always thinking first of her 
children's interest, and never of her own wishes ; and yet 
I could read between the lines, and knew how she missed 
us, especially Dot, who was her constant companion. 

But it was really the truth that the sea air was doing 
Dot good. He complained less of his back, and went faster 
and faster on his little crutches; the cruel abscesses had not 
tried him for months, and now it seemed to me that the 
thin cheeks were rounding out a little. He looked so 
sunburnt and rosy, that I wished mother could have seen 
him. It was only the colour of a faintly-tinged rose, but 
all the same it was wonderful for Dot. We had had lovely 
weather for our holiday ; but at the beginning of September 
came a change. About a week after mother’s letter had 
arrived, heavy storms of wind and rain raged round the 
coast. 

Miss Euth and Dot were weather-bound, neither of them 
had strength to brave the boisterous wind ; but Flurry 
and I would tie down our hats with our veils and run down 
the parade for a blow. It used to be quite empty and 
deserted ; only in the distance we could see the shiny hat 
of the Preventive man, as he walked up and down with his 
telescope. 

I used to hold Flurry tightly by the hand, for I feared 
she would be blown off her feet. Sometimes we were nearly 
drenched and blinded with the salt spray. 

The sea looked so grey and sullen, with white curling 
waves leaping up against the sea wall ; heaps of froth lay 
on the parade, and even on the green enclosure in the front 
of the houses. People said it was the highest tide they 
had known for years. 

Once I was afraid to take Flurry out, and ran down to 
the beach alone. I had to plant my feet firmly in the 
shingles, for I could hardly stand against the wind. What 
a wild, magnificent scene it was, a study in browns and 
greys, a strange, colourless blending of faint tints and 
uncertain shading. 

As the waves receded there was a dark margin of 


i6o 


ESTHER. 


heaped-up seaweed along the beach, the tide swept in 
masses of tangled things, the surge broke along the shore 
with a voice like thunder, great foamy waves leaped up in 
curling splendour and then broke to pieces in the grey 
abyss. The sky was as grey as the sea ; not a living thing 
was in sight except a lonely seagull. I could see the gleam 
of the firelight through one of the windows of the cottage. 
It looked so warm and snug. The beach was high and dry 
round me, but a little beyond the Brambles the tide flowed 
up to the low cliffs. Most people would have shivered in 
such a scene of desolation, for the seagull and I had it all 
to ourselves, but the tumult of the wind and waves only 
excited me. I felt wild with spirits, and could have 
shouted in the exuberance of my enjoyment. 

I could have danced in my glee, as the foamy snow- 
flakes fell round me, and my face grew stiff and wet with 
the briny air. The white manes of the sea-horses arched 
themselves as they swept to their destruction. How the 
wind whistled and raved, like a hunted thing ! ‘ They 

that go down to the sea in ships, and do their business in 
the deep waters,’ those words seemed to flash to me across 
the wild tumult, and I thought of all the wonders seen by 
the mariners of old. 

‘ Oh, Esther, how can you be so adventurous?’ exclaimed 
Miss Kuth, as I thrust a laughing face and wet waterproof 
into the room ; she and the children were sitting round the 
fire. 

‘ Oh, it was delicious,’ I returned. ‘ It intoxicated me 
like new wine ; you cannot imagine the mighty duet of the 
sea and wind, the rolling sullen bass, and the shrill 
crescendo.’ 

‘ It must have been horrible,’ she replied, with a little 
shiver. The wild tempestuous weather depressed her ; the 
loud discordance of the jarring elements seemed to fret the 
quiet of her spirit. 

‘ You are quite right,’ she said to me as we sat alone 
that evening, ‘this sort of weather disturbs my tranquillity; 
it makes me restless, and agitates my nerves. Last night 


THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE, 


l6l 


I could not sleep ; images of terror blended with my waking 
thoughts. I seemed to see great ships driving before the 
wind, and to hear the roaring of breakers and crashing of 
timbers against cruel rocks ; and when I closed my eyes, it 
was only to see the whitened bones of mariners lying 
fathoms deep among green tangled seaweed.’ 

‘ Dear Miss Kuth, no wonder you look pale and depressed 
after such a night. Would you like me to sleep with you ? 
the wind seems to act on me like a lullaby. I felt cradled 
in comfort last night.’ 

‘ You are so strong,’ she said, with a little sadness in her 
voice. ‘ You have no nerves, no diseased sensibilities; you 
do not dread the evils you cannot see, the universe does 
not picture itself to you in dim terrors.’ 

‘ Why, no,’ I returned, wonderingly, for such suggestions 
were new to me. 

‘ Sleep your happy sleep, my dear,’ she said tenderly, 
* and thank God for your perfect health, Esther. I dozed 
a little myself towards morning, before the day woke in 
its rage, and then I had a horrible sort of dream, a half- 
waking scare, bred of my night-terrors. 

‘ I thought I was tossing like a dead leaf in the gale ; the 
wind had broken bounds, and carried me away bodily. 
Now I was lying along the margin of waves, and now swept 
in wide circles in the air. 

‘ The noise was maddening. The air seemed full of 
shrieks and cries, as though the universe were lost and 
bewailing itself, “ Lamentation and mourning and woe,” 
seemed written upon the lurid sky and sea. I thought of 
those poor lovers in Dante’s Inferno, blown like spectral 
leaves before the infernal winds of hell ; but I was alone in 
this tumultuous torrent. 

‘ I felt myself sinking at last into the dim, choking surge 
— ^it was horribly real, Esther — and then some one caught 
me by the hair and drew me out, and the words came to 
me, for so He bringeth them to the haven where they 
would be.” ’ 

‘ How strange ! ’ I exclaimed in an awed tone, for Miss 


ESTHER, 


162 

Euth’s face was pale, and there was a touch of sadness in 
her voice. 

^It was almost a vision of one’s life,^ she returned, 
slowly ; ‘ we drift hither and thither, blown by many a gust 
of passion over many an unseen danger. If we be not 
engulphed, it is because the Angel of His Providence 
watches over us ; drawn out of many waters,” how many 
a life history can testify of that ! ’ 

‘ We have our smooth days as well,’ I returned, cheerfully, 
‘ when the sun shines, and there are only ripples on the 
waters.’ 

‘ That is in youth,’ she replied ; ‘ later on the storms 
must come, and the wise mariner will prepare himself to 
meet them. We must not always be expecting fair weather. 
Do not you remember the lines of my favourite hymn, 

“And oh, the joy upon that shore 
To tell our shipwrecked voyage o’er.** 

Eeally, I think one of the great pleasures in heaven will 
be telling the perils we have been through, and how He has 
brought us home at last.’ 

Miss Euth would not let me sleep with her that night ; 
but to my great relief, for her pale, weary looks made me 
anxious, the wind abated, and towards morning only the 
breaking surge was heard dashing along the shore. 

‘ I have rested better,’ were the first words when we met, 
‘ but that one night’s hurly-burly has wrecked me a little,’ 
which meant that she was only fit for bed. 

But she would not hear of giving up entirely, so I drew 
her couch to the fire, and wrapped her up in shawls, 
and left Dot to keep her company, w^hile Flurry and I went 
out. In spite of the lull the sea was still very unquiet, 
and the receding tide gave us plenty -of amusement, and 
we spent a very happy morning. In the afternoon, Miss 
Euth had some errands for me to do in the town — wools to 
match, and books to change at the library, after which I 
had to replenish our exhausted store of note-paper. 

It was Saturday, and w^e had decided the pony carriage 


THE -SMUGGLERS' CA VE. 1 63 

must go alone to the station to meet Mr. Lucas. He 
generally arrived a little before six, but once he had 
surprised us walking in with his portmanteau, just as we 
were starting for our afternoon’s walk. Flurry begged 
hard to accompany me ; but Miss Euth thought she had 
done enough, and wished her to play with Dot in the 
dining-room at some nice game. I was rather sorry at 
Miss Euth’s decision, for I saw Flurry was in one of her 
perverse moods. They occurred very seldom, but gave me 
a great deal of trouble to overcome them. She could be 
very naughty on such occasions, and do a vast amount of 
mischief. Flurry’s break-outs, as I called them, were 
extremely tiresome, as Nurse Gill and I knew well. I was 
very disinclined to trust Dot in her company, for her 
naughtiness would infect him, and even the best of children 
can be troublesome sometimes. Flurry looked very sulky 
when I asked her what game they meant to play, and I 
augured badly from her toss of the head and brief replies. 
She was hugging Flossy on the window-seat, and would 
not give me her attention, so I turned to Dot, and begged 
him to be a good boy and not to disturb Miss Euth, but 
take care of Flurry. 

Dot answered amiably, and I ran off, determining to be 
back as soon as I could. I wished Nurse Gill could sit 
with the children and keep them in good temper, but she 
was at work in Miss Euth’s room and could not come 
down. 

My errands took longer than I thought ; wool matching 
is always a troublesome business, and the books Miss Euth 
wanted were out, and I had to select others ; it was more 
than an hour before I set off for home, and then I met 
Nurse Gill, who wanted some brass rings for the curtains 
she was making, and had forgotten to ask me to get them. 

The wind was rising again, and I was surprised to find 
Miss Euth in the porch with her handkerchief tied over her 
head, and Dorcas running down the garden path. 

‘Have you seen them, Miss Esther?’ asked the girl, 
anxiously. 


ESTHER. 


164 

‘ Who — what do you mean ? ' I inquired. 

‘ Miss Florence and Master Dot ; we have been looking 
for them everywhere. I was taking a cup of tea just now 
to mistress, and she asked me to go into the dining-room, 
as the children seemed so quiet ; but they were not there, 
and Betty and I have searched the house and garden over, 
and we cannot find them.’ 

‘ Oh, Esther, come here,’ exclaimed Miss Euth in agony, 
for I was standing still straining my eyes over the beach to 
catch a glimpse of them. ‘ I am afraid I was very wrong 
to send you out, and Giles will be here presently, and 
Dorcas says Dot’s hat is missing from the peg, and Flurry’s 
sealskin hat and jacket.’ 

Dot out in this wind ! I stood aghast at the idea, but the 
next moment I took Miss Euth’s cold little hands in 
mine. 

‘ You must not stand here,’ I said, firmly ; ‘ come into 
the drawing-room, I will talk to you there, and you too, 
Dorcas. No, I have not seen them,’ as Miss Euth yielded 
to my strong grasp, and stood shivering and miserable on 
the rug. ‘ I came past the Preventive station and down 
the parade, and they were not there.’ 

‘ Could they have followed Nurse Gill?’ struck in Dorcas. 

‘ No, for I met her just now, and she was alone. I 
hardly think they would go to the town. Dot never cared 
for the shops, or Flurry either. Perhaps they might be 
hidden in one of the bathing machines. Oh, Miss Euth,’ 
with an access of anxiety in my voice, ‘ Dot is so weakly, 
and this strong wind will blow him down ; it must be all 
Flurry’s naughtiness, for nothing would' have induced him 
to go out unless she made him.’ 

‘What are we to do?’ she replied, helplessly. This 
sudden terror had taken away her strength, she looked so 
ill. I thought a moment before I replied. 

‘ Let Dorcas go down to the bathing machines,’ I said, 
at last, ‘ and she can speak to the Preventive man ; and if 
you do not mind being alone. Miss Euth, and you must 
promise to lie down and keep quiet, Betty might go 


THE SMUGGLERS^ CAVE. 1 65 

into the town and find Nurse Gill. I will just run along 
the beach and take a look all around.’ 

‘Yes, do,’ she returned. ‘Oh, my naughty, naughty 
Flurry ! ’ almost wringing her hands. 

‘ Don’t frighten yourself beforehand,’ I said, kissing her 
and speaking cheerfully, though I did feel in a state about 
Dot ; and what would mother and Mr. Lucas say ? ‘ I 
daresay Dorcas or I will bring them back in a few minutes, 
and then won’t they get a scolding ! ’ 

‘ Oh, no ; I shall be too happy to scold them,’ she re- 
turned, with a faint smile, for my words put fresh heart in 
her, and she would follow us into the porch and stand 
looking after us. 

I scrambled over the shingles as fast as I could, for the 
wind was rising, and I was afraid it would soon grow dusk. 
Nothing was in sight ; the whole shore was empty and 
desolate — fearfully desolate, even to my eyes. 

It was no use going on, I thought ; they must be hiding 
in the bathing machines after all. And I was actually 
turning round when something grey on the beach attracted 
my attention, and I picked it up. To my horror, it was 
one of Dot’s woollen mittens that mother had knitted for 
him, and which he had worn that very afternoon. 

I was on their track, after all. I was sure of it now ; 
but when I lifted my eyes and saw the dreary expanse of 
shore before me, a blank feeling of terror took ' possession 
of me. They were not in sight ! Nothing but cloudy skies 
and low chalky cliffs, and the surge breaking on the 
shingles. 

All at once a thought that was almost an inspiration 
flashed across me — the smugglers’ cave ! Flurry was 
always talking about it ; it had taken a strong hold of her 
imagination, and both she and Dot had been wild to 
explore it, only Miss Euth had never encouraged the idea. 
She thought caves were damp, dreary places, and not fit 
for delicate children. Flurry must have tempted Dot to 
accompany her on this exploring expedition. I was as 
convinced of the fact as though I had overheard the 


ESTHER, 


1 66 

children’s conversation. She would coax and cajole him 
until his conscience was undermined. How could he 
have dragged himself so far on his crutches ? for the cave 
was nearly half a mile away from where I stood, and the 
wind was rising fearfully. And now an icy chill of terror 
came over me from head to foot — the tide was advancing ! 
It had already covered the narrow strip of sand ; in less 
than an hour it would reach the cliifs, for the shore curved 
a little beyond the cottage, and with the exception of the 
beach before the Brambles, the sea covered the whole of 
the shingles. 

I shall never, to my dying day, forget that moment’s 
agony when my mind first grasped the truth of the deadly 
peril those thoughtless babes had incurred. Without 
instant help, those little children must be drowned, for 
the water flowed into the cave. Even now it might be too 
late. All these thoughts whirled through my brain in an 
instant. 

Only for a moment I paused and cast one despairing 
glance round me. The cottage was out of sight. Nurse 
Gill, and Dorcas, and Betty were scouring the town ; no 
time to run back for help, no hope of making one’s voice 
heard with the wind whistling round me. 

‘ Oh, my God! help me to save these children!’ I cried, 
with a sob that almost choked me. And then I dashed 
like a mad thing towards the shore. 

My despair gave me courage, but my progress was 
difficult and slow. It was impossible to keep up that pace 
over the heavy shingles with the wind tearing round me 
and taking away my breath. 

Several times I had to stand and collect my energies, 
and each time I paused I called the children’s names 
loudly. But, alas ! the wind and the sea swallowed up the 
sound. 

How fast the tide seemed coming up ! The booming of 
the breakers sounded close behind me. I dared not look — 
I dared not think. I fought and buffeted the wind, and 
folded my cloak round me. 


Oh, my God ! help me to save these children.’^ 


Page 166 




I 


THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE. 167 

* Out of the depth I have cried unto Thee/ Those were 
the words I said over and over to myself. 

I had reached the cave at last, and leant gasping and 
nearly faint with terror before I began searching in its dim 
recesses. 

Great masses of slimy seaweed lay heaped up at the 
entrance ; a faint damp odour pervaded it. The sudden 
roar of wind and sea echoed in dull hollowness, but here at 
least my voice could be heard. 

‘ Flurry — Dot ! ’ I screamed. I could hear my own wild 
shriek dying away through the cavern. To my delight, 
two little voices answered — 

‘ Here we are, Esther ! Come along, we are having such 
a game ! Flurry is the smuggler, and I am the Preventive 
man, and Flossy is my dog, and — oh, dear ! what is the 
matter?’ And Dot, who had hobbled out of a snug, dry 
little corner near the entrance, looked up with frightened 
eyes as I caught him and Flurry in my arms. I suppose 
my face betrayed my fears, for I could not at that moment 
gasp out another word. 



R XYII. 

^ £ong TTigl^t. 


^ X T is the matter, Essie ? * 
Y Y cried Dot, piteously, as I held 
him in that tight embrace 
without speaking. ‘ We were naughty to 
come, yes, I know ; but you said I was to take care of 
Flurry, and she would come. I did not like it, for the 
wind was so cold and rough, and I fell twice on the shingles ; 
but it is nice here, and we were having such a famous 
game.’ 

‘ Esther is going to be cross and horrid because we ran 
away, but father will only laugh,’ exclaimed Flurry, wdth 
the remains of a frown on her face. She knew she was in 
the wrong, and meant to brave it out. 

Oh, the poor babes, playing their innocent games, with 
Death w^aiting for them outside ! 

‘ Come, there is not an instant to lose,’ I exclaimed, 
catching up Dot in my arms ; he w^as very little and light, 
and I thought we could get on faster so, and perhaps if the 
sea overtook us they would see us and put out a boat from 
the Preventive station. ‘ Come, come,’ I repeated, snatch- 
ing Flurry’s hand, for she resisted a little : but when I 
reached the mouth of the cave she uttered a loud cry, 
and tugged fiercely at my hand to get free. 

‘Oh, the sea, the dreadful sea!’ she exclaimed, hiding 


A LONG NIGHT. 1 69 

her face ; ‘ it is coming up ! Look at the waves — we shall 
be drownded ! ’ 

I could feel Dot shiver in my arms, but he did not speak, 
only his little hands clung round my neck convulsively. 
Poor children ! their punishment had already begun. 

‘ We shall be drowned if you don’t make haste,’ I re- 
turned, trying to speak carefully, but my teeth chattered in 
spite of myself. ‘ Come, Flurry, let us run a race with the 
waves ; take hold of my cloak, for I want my hands free 
for Dot.’ I had dropped his crutches in the cave ; they 
were no use to him — he could not have moved a step in the 
teeth of this wind. 

Poor Flurry began to cry bitterly, but she had confidence 
in my judgment, and an instinct of obedience made her 
grasp my cloak, and so we commenced our dangerous pil- 
grimage. I could only move slowly with Dot ; the wind was 
behind us, but it was terribly fierce. Flurry fell twice, and 
picked herself up sobbing ; the horrors of the scene utterly 
broke down her courage, and she threw her arms round me 
frantically and prayed me to go back. 

‘ The waves are nearly touching us ! ’ she shrieked ; and 
then Dot, infected by her terrors, began to cry loudly too. 
‘ We shall be drownded, all of us, and it is getting dark, 
and I won’t go, I won’t go ! ’ screamed the poor child, trying 
to push me back with her feeble force. 

Then despair took possession of me ; we might have done 
it if Flurry had not lost all courage ; the water would not 
have been high enough to drown us ; we could have waded 
through it, and they would have seen us from the cottage 
and come to our help. I would have saved them ; I knew 
I could ; but in Flurry’s frantic state it was impossible. 
Her eyes were dilated with terror, a convulsive trembling 
seized her. Must we go back to the cave, and be drowned 
like rats in a hole ? The idea was horrible, and yet it went 
far back. Perhaps there was some corner or ledge of rock 
where we might be safe ; but to spend the night in such a 
place ! the idea made me almost as frantic as Flurry. 
Still, it was our only chance, and we retraced our steps. 


ESTHER. 


170 

but still SO slowly and painfully that the spray of the ad- 
vancing waves wetted our faces, and beyond — ah ! — I shut 
my eyes and struggled on, while Flurry hid her head in the 
folds of my cloak. 

We gained the smugglers’ cave, and then I put down Dot, 
and bade him pick up his crutches and follow me close, 
while I explored the cave. It was very dark, and Flurry 
began to cry afresh, and would not let go of my hand ; but 
Dot shouldered his crutches, and walked behind us as well 
as he could. 

At each instant my terror grew. It was a large winding 
cave, but the heaps of seaweed everywhere, up to the very 
walls, proved that the water filled the cavern. I became 
hysterical too. I would not stay to be drowned there, I 
muttered between my chattering teeth ; drowned in the 
dark, and choked with all that rotten garbage ! Better take 
the children in either hand, and go out and meet our fate 
boldly. I felt my brain turning with the horror, when all 
at once I caught sight of a rough broken ledge of rock, 
rising gradually from the back of the cave. Seaweed hung 
in parts high up, but it seemed to me in the dim twilight 
there was a portion of the rock bare ; if so, the sea did not 
cover it — we might find a dry foothold. 

‘ Let go my hand a moment. Flurry,’ I implored ; ‘ I 
think I see a little place where we may be safe. I will be 
back in a moment, dear.’ But nothing could induce her to 
relax her agonised grasp of my cloak. I had to argue the 
point. ‘ The water comes all up here wherever the sea- 
weed is,’ I explained. ‘ You think we are safe. Flurry, but 
w^e can be drowned where we stand; the sea fills the cave.’ 
But at this statement Flurry only screamed the louder and 
clung closer. Poor child! she was beside herself with 
fright. 

So I said to Dot — 

‘ My darling is a boy, and boys are not so frightened as 
girls ; so you will stay here quietly w^hile Flurry and I climb 
up there, and Flossy shall keep you company.’ 

‘ Don’t be long,’ he implored, but he did not say another 



“Boys are not so frightened as girls.'' 


Page 170 


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A LONG NIGHT. 


173 

word. Dear, brave little heart, Dot behaved like a hero 
that day. He then stooped down and held Flossy, who 
whined to follow us. I think the poor animal knew our 
danger, for he shivered and cowered down in evident alarm, 
and I could hear Dot coaxing him. 

It was very slippery and steep, and I crawled up with diffi- 
culty, with Flurry clambering after me, and holding tightly 
to my dress. Dot watched us wistfully as we went higher 
and higher, leaving him and Flossy behind. The seaweed 
impeded us, but after a little while we came to a bare piece 
of rock jutting out over the cave, with a scooped-out corner 
where all of us could huddle, and it seemed to me as though 
the shelf went on for a yard or two beyond it. We were 
above water-mark there ; we should be quite safe, and a 
delicious glimmer of hope came over me. 

I had great difficulty in inducing Flurry to stay behind 
while I crawled down for Dot. She was afraid to be alone 
in that dark place, with the hollow booming of wind and 
waves echoing round her ; but I told her sternly that Dot 
and Flossy would be drowned, and then she let me go. ^ 

Dot was overjoyed to welcome me back, and then I lifted 
him up and bade him crawl slowly on his hands and knees, 
while I followed with his crutches, and Flossy crept after 
us, shivering and whining for us to take him up. As we 
toiled up the broken ledge it seemed to grow darker, and we 
could hardly see each other’s faces if we tried, only the splash 
of the first entering wave warned me that the sea would 
soon have been upon us. 

I was giddy and breathless by the time we reached the 
nook where Flurry was, and then we crept into the corner, 
the children clasping each other across me, and Flossy on 
my lap licking our faces alternately. Saved from a horrible 
death ! For a little while I could do nothing but weep 
helplessly over the children and thank God for a merciful 
deliverance. 

As soon as the first hysterical outburst of emotion was 
over, I did my best to make the children as comfortable as 
I could under such forlorn circumstances. I knew Flurry’s 


ESTHER. 


174 

terror of darkness, and I could well imagine how horribly 
the water would foam and splash beneath us, and I must 
try and prevent them from seeing it. 

I made Dot climb into my lap, for I thought the hard 
rock would make his poor back ache, and I could keep him 
from being chilled; and then I induced Flurry to creep 
under my heavy waterproof cloak — how thankful I was I 
put it on ! — and told her to hold Flossy in her arms, for the 
little creature's soft fur would be warm and comfortable ; 
and then I fastened the cloak together, buttoning it until it 
formed a little tent above them. Flurry curled her feet 
into my dress and put her head on my shoulder, and she 
and Dot held each other fast across me, and Flossy rolled 
himself up into a warm ball and went to sleep. Poor little 
creatures ! They began to forget their sorrows a little, 
until Flurry suddenly recollected that it was tea-time, and 
her father had arrived ; and then she began crying again 
softly. 

‘ I'm so hungry,’ she sobbed ; ‘ aren’t you, Dot ? ’ 

‘ Yes, but I don't mean to mind it,' returned Dot, man- 
fully. ‘ Essie is hungry too.' And he put up his hand and 
stroked my neck softly. The darling, he knew how I suffered, 
and would not add to my pain by complaining. 

I heard him say to Flurry in a whisper, ‘ It is all our 
fault ; we ought to be punished for running away ; but 
Essie has done nothing wrong. I thought God meant to 
drown us, as He did the disobedient people.' But this awful 
reminder of her small sins was too much for Flurry. 

‘ I did not mean to be wicked,’ she wailed. ‘ I thought it 
would be such fun to play at smugglers in the cave, and 
Aunt Euth and Esther never would let me.’ 

‘ Yes, and I begged you not to run away, and you would,* 
retorted Dot, in an admonishing tone. ‘ I did not want to 
come, too, because it was so cold, and the wind blew so ; 
but I promised Essie to take care of you, so I went. I think 
you were quite as bad as the people whom God drowned, 
because they would not be good and mind Noah.' 

‘ But I don't want to be drowned,' responded Flurry, 


A LONG NIGHT. 


m 

tearfully. * Oh, dear, Dot, don’t say such dreadful things ! 
I am good now, and I will never, never disobey Auntie again. 
Shall we say our prayers. Dot, and ask God not to be so very 
angry, and then perhaps He will send some one to take us 
out of this dark, dreadful place ? ’ 

Dot approved of this idea, and they began repeating their 
childish petitions together, but my mind strayed away when 
I tried to join them. 

Oh, how dark and desolate it was ! I shivered and clasped 
the children closer to me as the hollow moaning of the waves 
reverberated through the cavern. Every minute the water 
was rising ; by-and-by the spray must wet us even in our 
sheltered corner. Would the children believe me when I 
told them we were safe ? Would not Flurry’s terrors return 
at the first touch of the cold spray ? The darkness and the 
noise and the horror were almost enough to turn her childish 
brain ; they were too much for my endurance. 

‘ Oh, heavens ! ’ I cried to myself, ‘ must we really spend 
a long, hideous night in this place ? We are safe ! safe ! ’ 
I repeated ; but still it was too horrible to think of wearing 
out the long, slow hours in such misery. 

It was six now ; the tide v/ould not turn until three in 
the morning ; it had been rising for three hours now; it 
would not be possible to leave the cave and make our way 
by the cliff for an hour after that. Ten hours — ten long, 
crawling hours to pass in this cramped position ! I thought 
of dear mother’s horror if she knew of our peril, and then 
I thought of Allan, and a lump came in my throat. 

Mr. Lucas would be scouring the coast in search of us. 
What a night for the agonised father to pass ! And poor, 
fragile Miss Euth, how would she endure such hours of 
anxiety? I could have wrung my hands and moaned 
aloud at the thought of their anguish, but for the children 
— the poor children who were whispering their baby prayers 
together ; that kept me still. Perhaps they might be even 
now at the mouth of the cave, seeking and calling to us. 
A dozen times I imagined I could hear the splash of oars 
and the hoarse cries of the sailors ; but how could our 


ESTHER, 


176 

feeble voices reach them in the face of the shrieking wind ? 
No one would think of the smugglers’ cave, for it was but 
one of many hollowed out of the cliff. They would search 
for us, but very soon they w’ould abandon it in despair ; 
they knew I had gone to seek the children ; most likely I 
had been too late, and the rising tide had engulfed us, and 
swept us far out to sea. Miss Euth would think of her 
dreams and tremble, and the wretched father would sit by 
her, stunned and helpless, waiting for the morning to break 
and bring him proof of his despair. 

The tears ran down my cheeks as these sad thoughts 
passed through my mind, and a strong inward cry for 
deliverance, for endurance, for some present comfort in 
this awful misery, shook my frame with convulsive 
shudders. Dot felt them, and clasped me tighter, and 
Flurry trembled in sympathy ; my paroxysm disturbed 
them, but my prayer was heard, and the brief agony 
passed. 

I thought of Jeremiah in his dungeon, of Daniel in the 
lions’ den, of the three children in the fiery furnace, and 
the Form that was like the Son of God walking with them 
in the midst of the flames ; and I knew and felt that we 
were as safe on that rocky shelf, with the dark, raging 
waters below us, as though we were by our own bright 
hearth fire at home ; then my trembling ceased, and I 
recovered voice to talk to the children. 

I wanted them to go to sleep; but Flurry said, in a 
lamentable voice, that she w^as too hungry, and the sea 
made such a noise ; so I told them about Shadrach, 
Meshech, and Abednego ; and after I had finished that, all 
the Bible stories I could remember of wonderful deliver- 
ance ; and by-and-by we came to the storm on the Galilean 
lake. 

Flurry leant heavily against me. ‘ Oh, it is getting 
colder,’ she gasped ; ‘ Flossy keeps my hands warm, 
and the cloak is thick, and yet I can’t help shivering.’ 
And I could feel Dot shiver, too. ‘ The water seems very 
near us, I wish I did not feel afraid of it Esther,’ she 


A LONG NIGHT, 


177 

whispered, after another minute; but I pretended not to 
hear her. 

‘ Yes, it is cold, but not so cold as those disciples must 
have felt,' I returned; ‘they were in a little open boat, 
Flurry, and the water dashed right over them, and the 
vessel rocked dreadfully' — here I paused — ‘and it was 
dark, for Jesus was not yet come to them.' 

‘ I wish He would come now,' whispered Dot. 

‘ That is what the disciples wished, and all the time they 
little knew that He was on His way to them, and watching 
them toiling against the wind, and that very soon the wind 
would cease, and they would be safe on the shore. We do 
not like being in this dark cave, do we. Flurry darling? 
And the sea keeps us awake ; but He knows that, and He 
is watching us ; and by-and-by, when the morning comes, 
we shall have light and go home.' 

Flurry said ‘ Yes,' sleepily, for in spite of the cold and 
hunger she was getting drowsy; it must have been long 
past her bedtime. We had sat on our dreary perch three 
hours, and there were six more to wait. I noticed that the 
sound of my voice tranquillised the children ; so I repeated 
hymns slowly and monotonously until they nodded against 
me and fell into weary slumbers. ‘ Thank God ! ’ I mur- 
mured when I perceived this, and I leant back against the 
rock, and tried to close my eyes ; but they would keep 
opening and staring into the darkness. It was not black 
darkness— I do not think I could have borne that ; a sort 
of murky half-light seemed reflected from the water, or 
from somewhere, and glimmered strangely from a back- 
ground of inky blackness. 

It was bitterly cold now ; my feet felt numbed, and the 
spray wetted and chilled my face. I dare not move my 
arm from Dot, he leant so heavily against it, and Flurry's 
head was against him. She had curled herself up like 
Flossy, and I had one. hand free, only I could not dis- 
entangle it from the cloak. I dared not change my 
cramped position, for fear of waking them. I was too 
thankful for their brief oblivion. If I could only doze for 

N 


ESTHER. 


178 

a few moments ; if I could only shut out the black waters 
for a minute ! The tumults of my thoughts were inde- 
scribable. My whole life seemed to pass before me ; every 
childish folly, every girlish error and sin, seemed to rise 
up before me ; conversations I had forgotten, little inci- 
dents of family life, dull or otherwise ; speeches I had 
made and repented, till my head seemed whirling. It 
must be midnight now, I thought. If I could only dare ; 
but a new terror kept me wdde awake. In spite of my 
protecting arms, would not Dot suffer from the damp 
chilliness ? He shivered in his sleep, and Flurry moaned 
and half woke, and then slept again. I was growing so 
numbed and cramped that I doubted my endurance for 
much longer. Dot seemed growing heavier, and there was 
the weight of Flurry and Flossy. If I could only stretch 
myself ! And then I nearly cried out, for a sudden flash 
seemed to light the cavern. One instant, and it was gone ; 
but that second showed a gruesome scene — damp, black 
walls, with a frothing turbulous water beneath them, 
and hanging arches exuding moisture. Darkness again. 
From whence had that light flashed ? As I asked myself 
the question it came again, startling me with its sudden 
brilliancy ; and this time it was certainly from some aper- 
ture overhead, and a little beyond where we sat. 

Gone again, and this time utterly; but not before I 
caught a glimpse of the broad rocky shelf beyond us. The 
light had flashed down not a dozen yards from where we 
stood ; it must have been a lantern ; if so, they were still 
seeking us, this time on the cliffs. It was only midnight, 
and there were still four weary hours to wait, and every 
moment I was growing more chilled and numbed. I began 
to dread the consequences to myself as well as to the 
children. If I could only crawl along the shelf and 
explore, perhaps there might be some opening to the cliff. 
I had not thought of this before, until the light brought 
the idea to my mind. 

I perceived, too, that the glimmering half-light came 
from above, and not from the mouth of the cave. For a 


A LONG NIGHT. 


179 

moment the fear of losing my balance and falling back 
into the water daunted me, and kept me from moving ; 
but the next minute I felt I must attempt it. I unfastened 
my cloak and woke Dot softly, and then whispered to him 
that I was cramped and in pain, and must move up and 
down the platform ; and he understood me, and crawled 
sleepily off my lap ; then I lifted Flurry with difficulty, 
for she moaned and whimpered at my touch. 

My numbness was so great I could hardly move my 
limbs ; but I crawled across Flurry somehow, and saw Dot 
creep into my place, and covered them with my cloak ; and 
then I commenced to move slowly and carefully on my 
hands and knees up the rocky path. 



T hey told me afterwards that this was a daring feat, and 
fraught with awful peril, for in that painful groping 
in the darkness I might have lost my balance and 
fallen back into the water. 

I was conscious of this at the time ; but we cannot die 
until our hour is come, and in youth one’s faith is more 
simple and trusting ; to pray is to be heard, to grasp more 
tightly by the mantle of His Providence, so I committed 
myself to Heaven, and crept slowly along the face of the 
rock. In two or three minutes I felt cold air blowing down 
upon my face, and, raising myself cautiously, I found I was 
standing under an aperture, large enough for me to crawd 
through, which led to the downs. For one moment I 
breathed the fresh night air and caught the glimmer of 
starlight, and then I crept back to the children. 

Flurry was awake and weeping piteously, and Dot was 
trying to comfort her in a sleepy voice ; but she was quiet 
the moment I told them about the hole. 

‘ I must leave you behind. Dot,’ I said, sorrowfully, ‘ and 
take Flurry first ; ’ and the brave little fellow said — 

‘ All right, Essie,’ and held back the dog, who was whin- 
ing to follow. 


.'■I 


‘ YOU BRAVE girl: 


l8l 


I put my arm round Flurry, and made her promise not to 
lose hold of the rock. The poor child was dreadfully fright- 
ened, and stopped every now and then, crying out in horror 
that she was falling into the water, but I held her fast and 
coaxed her to go on again ; and all the time the clammj^ 
dews of terror stood on my forehead. Never to my dying 
day shall I forget those terrible moments. 

But we were mercifully preserved, and to my joy I felt the 
winds of heaven blowing round us, and in another moment 
Flurry had crawled through the hole in the rock, and was 
sitting shivering on the grass. 

‘Now I must go back for Dot and Flossy,’ I exclaimed; 
but as I spoke and tried to disengage myself from Flurry’s 
nervous grasp, I heard a little voice below. 

‘ I am here, Essie, and I have got Flossy all safe. Just 
stoop down and take him, and then I shall clamber up all 
right.’ 

‘ Oh, my darling, how could you ? ’ The courageous 
child had actually dragged himself with the dog under one 
arm all along the dangerous path, to spare me another 
journey. 

I could scarcely speak, but I covered his cold little face 
with kisses as he tottered painfully into my arms — my 
precious boy, my brave, unselfish Dot ! 

‘ I could not bring the crutches or the cloak, Essie,’ he 
whispered. 

‘ Never mind them,’ I replied, with a catch in my voice. 
‘ You are safe ; we are all safe — that is all I can take in. 
I must carry you. Dot, and Flurry shall hold my dress, and 
we shall soon be home.’ 

‘Where is your hat, Essie?’ he asked, putting up his 
hand to my hair. It was true I was bareheaded, and yet I 
had never missed it. My cloak lay below in the cavern. 
What a strange sight I must have presented if anyone could 
have seen us ! My hair was blowing loosely about my face ; 
my dress seemed to cling round my feet. 

How awfully dark and desolate the downs looked under 
that dim starry light. Only the uncertain glimmer enabled 


1 82 


ESTHER. 


me to keep from the cliffs or discern the right path. The 
heavy booming of the sea and the wind together drowned 
our voices. When it lulled I could hear Flurry sobbing to 
herself in the darkness, and Flossy whining for company, 
as he followed us closely. Poor Dot was spent and weary, 
and lay heavily against my shoulder. Every now and then 
I had to stop and gather strength, for I felt strangely weak, 
and there was an odd beating at my heart. Dot must have 
heard my panting breath, for he begged me more than once 
to put him down and leave him, but I would not. 

My strength was nearly gone when we reached the shelv- 
ing path leading down to the cottage, but I still dragged on. 
A stream of hght came full upon us as we turned the corner ; 
it came from the cottage. The door was wide open and the 
parlour blinds were raised, and the ruddy gleam of lamp- 
light and firelight streamed full on our faces. 

No one saw us as we toiled up the pebbled path ; no one 
waited for us in the porch. I have a faint recollection that 
I stood in the hall, looking round me for a moment in a 
dazed fashion ; that Flossy barked, and a door burst open ; 
there was a wave of light, and a man’s voice saying some- 
thing. I felt myself swaying with Dot in my arms ; but 
someone must have caught us, for w^hen I came to myself I 
was lying on the couch by the drawing-room fire, and Miss 
Euth was kneeling beside me raining tears over my face. 

‘ And Dot ! ’ I tried to move and could not, and fell back 
on my pillow. ‘ The children ! ’ I gasped, and there was a 
sudden movement in the room, and Mr. Lucas stood over 
me with his child in his arms. Was it my fancy, or were 
there tears in his eyes, too ? 

‘ They are here, Esther,’ he said, in a soothing voice. 
‘ Nurse is taking care of your boy.’ And then he burst out, 
‘ Oh, you brave girl ! you noble girl ! ’- in a voice of strong 
emotion, and tm*ned away. 

‘^Hush, Giles, we must keep her quiet,’ admonished his 
sister. ‘We do not know what the poor thing has been 
thi'ough, but she is as cold as ice. And feel how. soaking 
her hair is ! ’ 



“Hush, Giles; we must keep her quiet.” 

Page 182. 






1 


I 




^ YOU BRAVE GIRL."^ 185 

Had it rained ? I suppose it had, but then the children 
must be wet too ! 

Miss Euth must have noticed my anxious look, for she 
kissed me and whispered — 

‘ Don’t worry, Esther ; we have fires and hot baths ready. 
Nurse and the others will attend to the children ; they will 
soon be warmed and in bed. Let me dry your hair and rub 
your cold hands ; and drink this, and you will soon be able 
to move.’ 

The cordial and food they gave me revived my numb 
faculties, and in a little while I was able, with assistance, 
to go to my room. Miss Euth followed me, and tenderly 
helped me to remove my damp things ; but I would not lie 
down in my warm bed until I had seen with my own eyes 
that Flurry was already soundly asleep and Dot ready to 
follow her example. 

‘Isn’t it delicious?’ he whispered, drowsily, as I kissed 
him ; and then Miss Euth led me back to my room, and 
tucked me up and sat down beside me. 

‘ Now tell me all about it,’ she said, ‘ and then you will 
be able to sleep.’ For a strong excitement had succeeded 
the faintness, and in spite of my aching limbs and weari- 
ness I had a sensation as though I could fly. 

But when I told her she only shuddered and wept, and 
before I had half narrated the history of those dismal hours 
she was down on her knees beside the bed, kissing my 
hands. 

‘ Do let me,’ she sobbed, as I remonstrated. ‘ Oh, Esther, 
how I love you ! How I must always love you for this ! 

‘ No, I am not Miss Euth any longer ; I am Euth. I am 
your own friend and sister, who would do anything to show 
her gratitude. You dear girl ! — you brave girl ! — as Giles 
called you.’ 

This brought to my lips the question, ‘ How had Mr. 
Lucas borne this dreadful suspense ? ’ 

‘As badly as possible,’ she answered, drying her eyes. 
^ Oh, Esther ! what we have all been through. Giles came 
in half an hour after you left to search the shore. He was 


ESTHER, 


1 86 

in a dreadful state, as you may imagine. He sent down to 
the Preventive station at once, and there was a boat got 
ready, and he went with the men. They pulled up and 
down for an hour or two, but could find no trace of you.’ 

‘ We were in the cavern all the time,’ I murmured. 

‘ That was the strangest part of all,’ she returned. 
* Giles remembered the cavern, and they went right into 
the mouth, and called as loudly as they could.’ 

‘ We did not hear them ; the wind was making such a 
noise, and it was so dark.’ 

‘ The men gave up all hope at last, and Giles was obliged 
to come back. He walked into the house looking as white 
as death. “It is all over,” he said; “the tide has over- 
taken them, and that girl is drowned with them.” And 
then he gave a sort of sob, and buried his face in his hands. 
I turned so faint that for a little time he was obliged to 
attend to me, but when I was better he got up and left the 
house. It did not seem as though he could rest from the 
search, and yet he had not the faintest glimmer of hope. 
He would have the cottage illuminated and the door left 
open, and then he lighted his lantern and walked up and 
down the cliffs, and every time he came back his poor face 
looked whiter and more drawn. I had got hold of his hand, 
and was trying to keep him from wandering out again, 
when all at once we heard Flossy bark. Giles burst open 
the door, and then he gave a great cry, for there you were, 
my poor Esther, standing under the hall lamp, with your 
hair streaming over your shoulders and Dot in your arms, 
and Flurry holding your dress, and you looked at us and 
did not seem to see us, and Giles was just in time to catch 
you as you were reeling. He had you all in his arms at 
once,’ finished Miss Kuth, with another sob, ‘ till I took our 
darling Flurry from him, and then he laid you down and 
carried Dot to the fire.’ 

‘ If I could not have saved them I would have died with 
them ; you knew that. Miss Euth.’ 

‘ Euth,’ she corrected. ‘ Yes, I knew that, and so did 
Giles. He said once or twice, “ She is strong enough or 


* YOU BRAVE GIRL* 


187 

sensible enough to save them if it were possible, but no one 
can fight against fate.’’ Now I must go down to him, for 
he is waiting to hear all about it, and you must go to sleep, 
Esther, for your eyes are far too bright.’ 

But, greatly to her surprise and distress, I resisted this 
advice and broke out into frightened sobs. The sea was in 
my ears, I said, when I tried to close my eyes, and my 
arms felt empty without Dot, and I could not believe he 
was safe, though she told me so over and over again. 

I was greatly amazed at my own want of control ; but 
nothing could lessen this nervous excitement until Mr. 
Lucas came up to the door, and Miss Euth went out to 
him in sore perplexity. 

‘ What am I to do, Giles ? I cannot soothe her in the 
least.^ 

‘ Let her have the child,’ he returned, in his deep voice ; 
* she will sleep then.’ And he actually fetched little Dot 
and put him in Miss Euth’s arms. 

‘ Isn’t it nice, Essie ? ’ he muttered sleepily, as he nestled 
against me. 

It was strange, but the moment my arm was round him, 
and I felt his soft breathing against my shoulder, my eye- 
lids closed of their own accord, and a sense of weariness 
and security came over me. 

Before many minutes were over I had fallen into a deep 
sleep, and Miss Euth was free to seek her brother and give 
him the information for which he was longing. 

It was nearly five in the morning when I closed my eyes, 
and it was exactly the same time on the following afternoon 
when I opened them. 

, My first look was for Dot, but he was gone, the sun was 
streaming in at the window, a bright fire burnt in the grate, 
and Nurse Gill was sitting knitting in the sunshine. 

She looked up with a pleasant smile on her homely face 
as I called to her rather feebly. 

‘ How you have slept, to be sure, Miss Esther — a good 
twelve hours. But I always say Nature is a safe nurse, 
and to be trusted. There’s Master Dot has been up and 


ESTHER. 


I88 

dressed these three hours and more, and Miss Flurry 
too.* 

‘ Oh, Nurse Gill, are you sure they are all right ? * I 
asked, for it was almost too good news to be true. 

‘ Master Dot is as right as possible, though he is a little 
palish, and complains of his back and legs, which is only 
to be expected if they do ache a bit. Miss Flurry has a 
cold, but we could not induce her to lie in bed ; she is 
sitting by the fire now on her father’s knee, and Master 
Dot is with them ; but there. Miss Euth said she was to be 
called as soon as you woke. Miss Esther, though I did beg 
her not to put herself about, and her head so terribly bad 
as it has been all day.’ 

‘ Oh, nurse, don’t disturb her,’ I pleaded, eagerly. ‘ I 
am quite well, there is nothing the matter with me. I 
want to get up this moment and dress myself ; ’ for a great 
longing came over me to join the little group downstairs. 

‘ Not so fast. Miss Esther,’ she returned, good-humouredly. 
* You’ve had a fine sleep, to be sure, and young things will 
stand a mortal amount of fatigue ; but there isn’t a speck 
of colour in your face, my poor lamb. Well, well,’ as I 
showed signs of impatience — ‘ I won’t disturb Miss Euth, 
but I will fetch you some coffee and bread-and-butter, and 
we will see how you will feel then.’ 

Mrs. Gill was a dragon in her way, so I resigned myself 
to her peremptory kindness. When she trotted off 
on her charitable errand, I leaned on my elbow and 
looked out of the window. It was Sunday evening, I re- 
membered, and the quiet peacefulness of the scene was in 
strangest contrast to the horrors of yesterday ; the wind 
had lulled, and the big curling waves ceased to look terrible 
in the sunlight ; the white spray tossed lightly hither and 
thither, and the long line of dark seaweed showed prettily 
along the yellow sands. The bitter war of winds and waves 
was over, and the defeated enemy had retired with spent 
fury, and sunk into silence. Could it be a dream ? had we 
really lived through that dreadful nightmare ? But at this 
moment Nurse Gill interrupted the painful retrospect by 


‘ VOC/ BRAVE girl: l8g 

placing the fragrant coffee and brown bread-and-butter 
before me. 

I ate and drank eagerly, to please myself as well as her, 
and then I reiterated my intention to get up. It cost me 
something, however, to persevere in my resolution. My 
limbs trembled under me, and seemed to refuse their 
support in the strangest way, and the sight of my pale 
face almost frightened me, and I was grateful to Nurse 
Gill when she took the brush out of my shaking hand and 
proceeded to manipulate the long tangled locks. 

‘ You are no more fit than a baby to dress yourself. Miss 
Esther,’ said the good old creature, in a vexed voice. 
^ And to think of drowning all this beautiful hair. Why, 
there is seaweed in it I do declare, like a mermaid.’ 

‘ The rocks were covered with it,’ I returned, in a weary 
indifferent voice; for Mrs. Gill’s officiousness tired me, 
and I longed to free myself from her kindly hands. 

When I was dressed, I crept very slowly downstairs. 
My courage was oozing away fast, and I rather dreaded 
all the kind inquiries that awaited me. But I need not 
have been afraid. 

Dot clapped his hands when he saw me, and Mr. Lucas 
put down Flurry and came to meet me. 

‘ You ought not to have exerted yourself,’ he said, 
reproachfully, as soon as he looked at me ; and then he 
took hold of me and placed me in the armchair, and Flurry 
brought me a footstool and sat down on it, Dot climbed up 
on the arm of the chair and propped himself against me, 
and Miss Euth rose softly from her couch and came across 
the room and kissed me. 

‘ Oh, Esther, how pale you look ! ’ she said, anxiously, 

‘ She will soon have her colour back again,’ returned Mr. 
Lucas, looking at me kindly. I think he wanted to say 
something, but the sight of my weakness deterred him. 
I could not have borne a word. The tears were very near 
the surface now, so near that I could only close my eyes and 
lean my head against Dot ; and, seeing this, they very 
wisely left me alone. I recovered myself by-and-by, and 


ESTHER, 


190 

was able to listen to the talk that went on around me. 
The children’s tongues were busy as usual; Flurry had 
gone back to her father, and she and Dot were keeping up 
a brisk fire of conversation across the hearth-rug. I could 
not see Mr. Lucas’s face, as he had moved to a dark corner, 
but Miss Euth’s couch was drawn full into the firelight, 
and I could see the tears glistening on her cheek. 

‘Don’t talk any more about it, my darlings,’ she said 
at last. ‘ I feel as though I should never sleep again, and 
I am sure it is bad for Esther.’ 

‘ It does not hurt me,’ I returned, softly. ‘ I suppose 
shipwrecked sailors like to talk over the dangers they 
escape ; somehow everything seems so far away and strange 
to-night, as though it had happened months ago.’ But 
though I said this I could not help the nervous thrill that 
seemed to pass over me now and then. 

‘ Shall I read to you a little ? ’ interrupted Mr. Lucas, 
quietly. ‘ The children’s talk tires your head ; ’ and 
without waiting for an answer, he commenced reading 
some of my favourite hymns and a lovely poem, in a low 
mellow voice that was very pleasant and soothing. 

Nurse came to fetch Flurry, and then Dot went too, 
but Mr. Lucas did not put down the book for a long time. 
I had ceased to follow the words ; the flicker of the firelight 
played fitfully before my eyes. The quiet room, the shaded 
lamp-light, the measured cadence of the reader’s voice, 
now rising, now falling, lulled me most pleasantly. I 
must have fallen asleep at last, for Flossy woke me by 
pushing his black nose into my hand ; for when I sat up 
and rubbed my eyes Mr. Lucas was gone, and only Miss 
Euth was laughing softly as she w^atched me. 

‘ Giles went away half an hour ago,’ she said, amused 
at my perplexed face. ‘ He was so pleased when he looked 
up and found you were asleep. I believe your pale face 
frightened him, but I shall tell him you look much better 
now.’ 

‘ My head feels less bewildered,’ was my answer. 

‘You are beginning to recover yourself,’ she returned, 


‘ you BRAVE girl: 1 91 

decidedly ; ‘ now you must be a good child and go to bed ; * 
and I rose at once. 

As I opened the drawing-room door, Mr. Lucas came out 
from his study, 

‘ Were you going to give me the slip ? ’ he said, plea- 
santly. ‘ I wanted to bid you good-bye, as I shall be off 
in the morning before you are awake.’ 

‘ Good-bye,’ I returned, rather shyly, holding out my 
hand ; but he kept it a moment longer than usual. 

‘ Esther, you must let me thank you,’ he said, abruptly. 
‘ I know but for you I must have lost my child. A man’s 
gratitude for such a mercy is a strong thing, and you may 
count me your friend as long as I live.’ 

‘ You are very good,’ I stammered, ‘ but I have done 
nothing ; and there was Dot, you know.’ I am afraid I 
was very awkward, but I dreaded his speaking to me so, and 
the repressed emotion of his face and voice almost fright- 
ened me. 

‘ There, I have made you quite pale again,’ he said, 
regretfully. ‘Your nerves have not recovered fpm the 
shock. Well, we will speak of this again ; good-night, my 
child, and sleep well,’ and with another kind smile he 
left me. 



I WAS SO young and healthy that I soon recovered from 
the shock, and in a few days I had regained strength 
and colour. Mr. Lucas had gone to see mother, and 
the day after his visit she wrote a fond incoherent letter, 
full of praises of my supposed heroism. Allan, to whom I 
had narrated everything fully, wrote more quietly, but the 
underlying tenderness breathed in every word for Dot and 
me touched me greatly. Dot had not suffered much ; he 
was a little more lame, and his back ached more con- 
stantly. But it was Flurry who came off worst ; her cold 
was on her chest, and when she threw it off she had a 
bad cough, and began to grow pale and thin ; she was 
nervous, too, and woke every night calling out to me or 
Dot, and before many days were over Miss Euth wrote 
to her brother and told him that Flurry would be better 
at home. 

We were waiting for his answer, when Miss Euth 
brought a letter to my bedside from mother, and sat down, 
as usual, to hear the contents, for I used to read her little 
bits from my home correspondence, and she wanted to 
know what Uncle Geoffrey thought about Flurry. My 
sudden exclamation frightened her. 

' What is wrong, Esther ? It is nothing about Giles ? ’ 


A LETTER FROM HOME, 


193 

‘ Oh, no ! ’ I returned, the tears starting to my eyes, 
‘ but I must go home at once ; Carrie is very ill, they are 
afraid it is an attack of rheumatic fever. Mother writes in 
such distress, and there is a message from Uncle Geoffrey, 
asking me to pack up and come to them without delay. 
There is something about Flurry, too ; perhaps you had 
better read it.’ 

‘ I will take the letter away with me. Don’t hurry too 
much, Esther ; we will talk it over at breakfast, and there 
is no train now before eleven, and nurse will help you to 
pack.’ 

That was just like Miss Euth — no fuss, no unnecessary 
words, no adding to my trouble by selfish regrets at my 
absence. She was like a man in that, she never troubled 
herself about petty details, as most women do, but just 
looked straight at the point in question. 

Her calmness reassured me, and by breakfast-time I was 
able to discuss matters quietly. 

‘ I have sent nurse to your room, Esther,’ she said, as 
she poured out the coffee ; ‘ the children have had their 
bread and milk and have gone out to play ; it is so 
warm and sunny, it will not hurt Flurry. The pony 
carriage will be round here at half-past ten, so you will 
have plenty of time, and I mean to drive you to the station 
myself.’ 

‘ You think of everything,’ I returned, gratefully. ‘ Have 
you read the letter ? Does it strike you that Carrie is so 
very ill?’ 

‘I am afraid so,’ she admitted, reluctantly; ‘your mother 
says she has been ailing some time, only she would not 
take care of herself, and then she got wet, and took her 
class in her damp things. I am afraid you have a long 
spell of nursing before you ; rheumatic fever sometimes 
lasts a long time. Your uncle says something about a 
touch of pleurisy as well.’ 

I pushed away my plate, for I could not eat. I am 
ashamed to say a strong feeling of indignation took posses- 
sion of me. 


o 


ESTHER, 


194 

‘ She would not give up,’ I burst out, angrily ; ‘ she 
would not come here to recruit herself, although she 
owned she felt ill ; she has just gone on until her strength 
was exhausted and she was not in a state for anything, 
and now all this trouble and anxiety must come on mother, 
and she is not fit for it.’ 

‘ Hush, Esther ; you must not feel like this,’ she re- 
turned, gently. ‘Poor Carrie will purchase wisdom dearly ; 
depend upon it, the knowledge that she has brought on 
this illness through her own self-will will be the sharpest 
pang of all. You must go home and be a comfort to them 
all, as you have been our comfort,’ she added, sw^eetly; 
‘ and, Esther ; I have been thinking over things, and you 
must trust Dot to me. We shall all return to the Cedars, 
most likely to-morrow, and I will promise not to let him 
out of my sight.’ 

And as I regarded her dubiously, she w^ent on still more 
eagerly— 

‘ You must let me keep him, Esther. Flurry is so 
poorly, and she wdll fret over the loss of her little com- 
panion; and with such a serious illness in the house, 
he would only be an additional care to you.’ And as she 
seemed so much in earnest, I consented reluctantly to w^ait 
for mother’s decision; for, after all, the child w^ould be dull 
and neglected, with Jack at school, and mother and me 
shut up in Carrie’s sick room. So in that, as in all else, 
Miss Euth was right. 

Dot cried a little when I said good-bye to him ; he did 
not like peeing me go aw^ay, and the notion of Carrie’s 
illness distressed him, and Flurry cried too, because he did, 
and then Miss Euth laughed at them both. 

‘You silly children,’ she said, ‘ when we are all going 
home to-morrow, and you can walk over and see Esther 
every day, and take her flowers and nice things for 
Carrie.’ Which view of the case cheered them immensely, 
and we left them with their heads very close together, 
evidently planning all sorts of surprises for Carrie and 
me. 


A LETTER FROM HOME, 


19s 

Miss Kuth talked very cheerfully up to the last moment, 
and then she grew a little silent and tearful. 

‘ I shall miss you so, Esther, both here and at the 
Cedars,’ she said, tenderly. ‘ I feel it may be a long time 
before you come to us again ; but there, I mean to see 
plenty of you,’ she went on, recovering herself. * I shall 
bring Dot every day, if it be only for a few minutes.’ 
And so she sent me away half comforted. 

It was a dreary journey, and I was thankful when it 
was over; there was no one to meet me at the station, 
so I took one of the huge lumbering flies, and a sleepy 
old horse dragged me reluctantly up the steep Milnthorpe 
streets. 

It was an odd coincidence, but as we passed the bank 
and I looked out of the window half absently, Mr. Lucas 
came down the steps and saw me, and motioned to the 
driver to stop. 

‘ I. am very sorry to see you here,’ he said, gravely ; ‘ I 
met Dr. Cameron just now, and he told me your mother 
had written to recall you.’ 

‘ Did he say how Carrie was ? ’ I interrupted anxiously. 

‘ She is no better, and in a state of great suffering ; it 
seems she has been imprudent, and taken a severe chill ; 
but don’t let me keep you, if you are anxious to go on.’ 
But I detained him a moment. 

‘Flurry seems better this morning,’ I observed; ‘her 
cough is less hard.’ 

He looked relieved at that. 

‘ I have written for them to come home to-morrow, and 
to bring Dot, too ; we will take care of him for you, and 
make him happy amongst us, and you will have enough on 
your hands.’ 

And then he drew back, and went slowly down High- 
street, but the encounter had cheered me ; I was beginning 
to look on Mr. Lucas as an old friend. 

Uncle Geoffrey was on the door-step as I drove up, and 
we entered the house together. 

‘ This is a bad business, I am afraid,’ he said, in a 


ESTHER, 


196 

subdued voice, as he closed the parlour door ; ‘ it goes to 
one’s heart to see that pretty creature suffer. I am glad, 
for all our sakes, that Allan will be here next week.’ And 
then I remembered all at once that the year was out, and 
that Allan was coming home to live ; but he had said so 
little about it in his last letters that I was afraid of some 
postponement. 

‘He is really coming, then?’ I exclaimed, in joyful 
surprise ; this was good news. 

‘Yes, next Thursday; and I shall be glad of the boy’s 
help,’ he replied, gruffly ; and then he sat down and told 
me about Carrie. 

Foolish girl, her zeal had indeed bordered upon mad- 
ness. It seems Uncle Geoffrey had taxed her with illness a 
fortnight ago, and she had not denied it; she had even 
consented to take the remedies prescribed her in the way 
of medicine, but nothing would induce her to rest. The 
illness had culminated last Sunday ; she had been caught 
in a heavy rain, and her thin summer walking dress had 
been drenched, and yet she had spent the afternoon as 
usual at the schools. A shivering fit that evening had 
been the result. 

‘ She has gradually got worse and worse,’ continued 
Uncle Geoffrey ; ‘ it is not ordinary rheumatic fever ; there 
is certainly sciatica, and a touch of pleurisy ; the chill on 
her enfeebled, worn-out frame has been deadly, and there 
is no knowing the mischief that may follow. I would not 
have you told before this, for, after a nasty accident like 
yours, a person is not fit for much. Let me look at you, 
child. I must own you don’t seem much amiss. Now 
listen to me, Esther. I have elected Deborah head-nurse, 
and you must work under her orders. Bless me,’ catching 
a glimpse of a crimson disappointed face, for I certainly 
felt crestfallen at this, ‘ a chit like you cannot be expected 
to know everything. Deb is a splendid nurse ; she has a 
head on her shoulders, that woman,’ with a little chuckle ; 
‘ she has just put your mother out of the room, because she 
says that she is no more use than a baby, so you will have 


A LETTER FROM HOME. 


197 

to wheedle yourself into her good graces if you expect to 
nurse Carrie.’ 

‘ Why did you send for me, if you expect me to be of no 
use ? ’ I returned, with decided temper, for this remark 
chafed me ; but he only chuckled again. 

‘Deborah sent for you, not I,’ he said, in an amused 
voice. ‘“Couldn’t we have Miss Esther home?” she 
asked ; “ she has her wits about her,” which I am afraid 
was a hit at somebody.’ 

This soothed me down a little, for my dignity was sadly 
affronted that Deborah should be mistress of the sick- 
room. I am afraid after all that I was not different 
from other girls, and had not yet outgrown what mother 
called the ‘ porcupine stage ’ of girlhood, when one bristles 
all over at every supposed slight, armed at every point 
with minor prejudices, like ‘quills upon the fretful por- 
cupine.’ 

Uncle Geoffrey bade me run along, for he was busy, so I 
went upstairs swallowing discontent with every step, until 
I looked up and saw mother’s pale sad face watching 
me from a doorway, and then every unworthy feeling 
vanished. 

‘ Oh, my darling, thank Heaven I have you again ! ’ she 
murmured, folding me in her loving arms ; ‘ my de'ar child, 
who has never given me a moment’s anxiety.’ And then I 
knew how heavily Carrie’s wilfulness had^ weighed on that 
patient heart. 

She drew me half weeping into Carrie’s little room, 
and we sat down together hand in hand. The invalid had 
been moved into mother’s room, as it was large and sunny, 
and I could hear Deborah moving quietly as I passed the 
door. 

Mother would not speak about Carrie at first ; she asked 
after Dot, and was full of gratitude to Miss Euth for taking 
care of him ; and then the dear soul cried over me, and 
said she had nearly lost us both, and that but for me her 
darling boy would have been drowned. Mr. Lucas had 
told her so. 


ESTHER. 


198 

‘ He was full of your praises, Esther,’ she went on, 
drying her eyes ; ‘ he says he and Miss .Euth will be your 
fast friends through life ; that there is nothing he would 
not do to show his gratitude; it made me so proud to 
hear it.’ 

‘ It makes me proud, too, mother ; but I cannot have 
you talking about me, when I am longing to hear about 
Carrie.* 

Mother sighed and shook her head, and then it was I 
noticed a tremulous movement about her head, and, oh ! 
how grey her hair was, almost white under her widow’s 
cap. 

‘There is not much to say,’ she said, despondently; 
‘ your uncle will not tell me if she be in actual danger, but 
he looks graver every day. Her sufferings are terrible ; 
just now Deborah would not let me remain, because I 
fretted so, as though a mother can help grieving over her 
child's agony. It is all her own fault, Esther, and that 
makes it all the harder to bear.’ 

I acquiesced silently, and then I told mother that I had 
come home to spare her, and do all I could for Carrie — as 
much as Deborah would allow. 

‘You must be very prudent, then,’ she replied, ‘for 
Deborah is very jealous, and yet so devoted, that one 
cannot find fault with her. Perhaps she is right, and I am 
too weak to be of much use, but I should like you to be 
with your sister as much as possible.’ 

I promised to be cautious, and after a little more talk 
with mother I laid aside my travelling things and stole 
gently into the sick-room. 

Deborah met me on the threshold with uplifted finger and 
a resolute ‘ Hush ! ’ on her lips. She looked more erect and 
angular than ever, and there was a stern forbidding expres- 
sion on her face ; but I would not be daunted. 

I caught her by both her hands, and drew her, against 
her will, to the door. 

‘ I want to speak to you,’ I whispered ; and when I had 
her outside, I looked straight into her eyes. ‘ Oh, Deb,’ I 


A LETTER FROM HOME, 


199 

cried, ‘ is it not dreadful for all of us ? and I have been in 
such peril, too. What should we do without you, when 
you know all about nursing, and understand a sick-room so 
well ? You are everything to us, De))orah, and we are so 
grateful, and now you must let me help you a little, and 
spare you fatigue. I daresay there are many little things 
you could find for me to do.’ 

I do not know about the innocence of the dove, but cer- 
tainly the wisdom of the serpent was in my speech ; my 
humility made Deborah throw down her arms at once. 
‘Any little thing that I can do,’ I pleaded, and her face 
relaxed and her hard grey eyes softened. 

‘You are always ready to help a body. Miss Esther, 
I will say that, and I don’t deny that I am nearly 
ready to drop with fatigue through not having my 
clothes off these three nights. The mistress is no more 
help than a baby, not being able to lift, or to leave off 
crying.’ 

‘ And you will let me help you ? ’ I returned, eagerly, a 
little too eagerly, for she drew herself up. 

‘ I won’t make any promises. Miss Esther,’ she said, 
rather stiffly; ‘the master said I must have help, and I am 
willing to try what you can do, though you are young and 
not used to the ways of a sick-room,’ finished the provoking 
creature; but I restrained my impatience. 

‘ Any little thing that I can do,’ I repeated, humbly ; and 
my forbearance had its reward, for Deborah drew aside to let 
me pass into the room, only telling me, rather sharply, to 
say as little as possible and keep my thoughts to myself. 
Deborah’s robust treatment was certainly bracing, and it 
gave me a sort of desperate courage ; but the first shock 
of seeing Carrie was dreadful. 

The poor girl lay swathed in bandages, and as I entered 
the room her piteous moanings almost broke my heart. 
Burning with fever, and racked by pain, she could find no 
ease or rest. 

As I hissed her she shuddered, and her eyes looked at 
me with a terrible sadness in them. 


200 


ESTHER. 


‘ Oh, my poor dear, how sorry I am ! ’ I whispered. I 
dared not say more with Deborah hovering jealously in the 
back-ground. 

‘ Don’t be sorry,’ she groaned ; ‘ I deserved it — I deserve 
it all.’ And then she turned away her face, and her fair 
hair shaded it from me. Did I hear it aright ; and was it 
a whispered prayer for patience that caught my ear as she 
turned away? 

Deborah would not let me stay long. She sent me down 
to have tea and talk to mother, but she promised that I 
should come up again by-and-by. I was surprised as I 
opened the parlour door to find Mr. Lucas talking to Uncle 
Geoffrey and mother, with Jack looking up at him with 
awe-struck eyes. He came forward with an amused smile, 
as he noticed my astonished pause. 

‘ You did not expect to see me here,’ he said, in his most 
friendly manner ; ‘ but I wanted to inquire after your sister. 
Mrs. Cameron has been so good as to promise me a cup of 
tea, so you must make it.’ 

That Mr. Lucas should be drinking tea at mother’s 
table ! somehow, I could not get over my surprise. I had 
never seen him in our house before, and yet in the old 
times both he and his wife had been frequent visitors. 
Certainly he seemed quite at home. 

Mother had lighted her pretty china lamp, and Uncle 
Geoffrey had thrown a log of wood on the fire, and the 
parlours looked bright and cosy, and even Jack’s hair was 
brushed and her collar for once not awry. I suppose Mr. 
Lucas found it pleasant, for he stayed quite late, and I 
wondered how he could keep his dinner w^aiting so long ; 
but then Uncle Geoffrey was such a clever man, and could 
talk so well. I thought I should have to leave them at 
last, for -it was nearly the time that Deborah wanted me ; 
but just then Mr. Lucas looked across at me and noticed 
something in my face. 

‘You want to be with your sister,’ he said, suddenly 
interpreting my thoughts, ‘ and I am reducing my cook to 
despair. Good-bye, Mrs. Cameron. Many thanks for a 


A LETTER FROM HOME. 


201 


pleasant hour.’ And then he shook hands with us all, and 
left the room with Uncle Geoffrey. 

‘What an agreeable, well-bred man,’ observed mother. 
‘ I like him exceedingly, and yet people call him proud and 
reserved.’ 

‘ He is not a bit,’ I returned, indignantly ; and then I 
kissed mother, and ran upstairs 



F or many, many long weeks, I might say months, my 
daily life was lived in Carrie’s sick-room. 

What a mercy it is that we are not permitted to 
see the course of events — that we take moment by moment 
from the Father’s hand, not knowing what lies before us ! 

It was September when I had that little altercation with 
Deborah on the threshold, and when she drew aside for me 
to pass into that dimly-lighted sick-room ; it was Christmas 
now, and I was there still. Could I have foreseen those 
months, with their record of suffering, their hours of change- 
less monotony, well might my courage have failed. As it 
was, I watched the slow progression of nights and days 
almost indifferently ; the walls of the sick-room closed 
round me, shutting me out from the actual world, and con- 
centrating my thoughts on the frail girl who was fighting 
against disease and death. 

So terrible an illness I pray to Heaven I may never see 
again; sad complications producing ‘unheard-of tortures, 
and bringing the sufferer again and again to the very brink 
of death. 

‘ If I could only die : if I were only good enough to be 
allowed to die ! ’ that was the prayer she breathed ; and there 
were times when I could have echoed it, when I would rather 


‘ ¥ 00 - WERE RIGHT, ESI'HER: 203 

have parted with her, dearly as I loved her, than have seen 
her so racked with agony ; but it was not to be. The lesson 
was not completed. There are some who must be taught to 
live who have to take back ‘ the turned lesson,’ as one has 
beautifully said, and learn it more perfectly. 

If I had ever doubted her goodness in my secret soul, I 
could doubt no longer, when I daily witnessed her weakness 
and her exceeding patience. She bore her suffering almost 
without complaint, and would often hide from us how much 
she had to endure. 

‘ ‘‘ It is good to be still.’’ Do you remember that, Esther?’ 
she said once ; and I knew she was quoting the words of one 
who had suffered. 

After the first day I had no further difficulty with Debo- 
rah ; she soon recognised my usefulness, and gave me my 
share of nursing without grudging. I took my turn at the 
night-watching, and served my first painful apprenticeship 
in sick nursing. Mother could do little for us ; she could 
only relieve me for a couple of hours in the afternoon, during 
which Uncle Geoffrey insisted that I should have rest and 
exercise. 

Allan did not come home when we expected him ; he had 
to postpone his intention for a couple of months. This was 
a sad disappointment, as he would have helped us so much, 
and mother’s constant anxiety that my health should not 
suffer by my close confinement was a little trying at times. 
I was quite well, but it was no wonder that my fresh colour 
faded a little, and that I grew a little quiet and subdued. 
The absence of life and change must be pernicious to young 
people; they want air, movement, a certain stirring of 
activity and bustle to keep time with their warm natures. 

Everyone was very kind to me. Uncle Geoffrey would 
take me on his rounds, and often Miss Euth and Flurry 
would call for me, and drive me into the country, and they 
brought me books and fruit and lovely flowers for Carrie’s 
room ; and though I never saw Mr. Lucas during his few 
brief visits he never failed to send me a kind message or to 
ask if there was anything he could do for us. 


ESTHER, 


204 

Miss Kuth, or Euth, as I always called her now, would 
sometimes come up into the sick-room and sit for a few 
minutes. Carrie liked to see her, and always greeted her 
with a smile; but when Mrs. Smedley heard of it, and 
rather peremptorily demanded admittance, she turned very 
pale, and calling me to her, charged me, in an agitated 
voice, never to let her in. ‘ I could not see her, I could not,* 
she went on, excitedly. ‘ I like Miss Euth ; she is so gentle 
and quiet. But I want no one but you and mother.’ 

Mother once — very injudiciously, as Uncle Geoffrey and I 
thought — tried to shake this resolution of Carrie’s. 

‘ Poor Mrs. Smedley seems so very grieved and disap- 
pointed that you will not see her, my dear. This is the third 
time she has called this week, and she has been so kind to 
you.’ 

‘ Oh, mother, don’t make me see her ! ’ pleaded Carrie, 
even her lips turning white ; and of course mother kissed 
her and promised that she should not be troubled. But 
when she had left the room Carrie became very much 
agitated. 

‘ She is the last I ought to see, for she helped to bring me 
to this ; she taught me to disobey my mother — yes, Esther, 
she did indeed ! ’ as I expostulated in a shocked manner. 
‘ She was always telling me that my standard was not high 
enough — that I ought to look above even the wisest earthly 
parents. She said my mother had old-fashioned notions of 
duty ; that things were different in her young days ; that, in 
spite of her goodness, she had narrow views ; that it was 
impossible for her even to comprehend me.’ 

‘ Dear Carrie, surely you could not have agreed with her?’ 
I asked, gently ; but her only answer was a sigh as she sank 
back upon her pillows. 

It was the evening Allan was expected, I remember. It 
was December now, and for nine weeks I had been shut up 
in that room, with the exception of my daily walk or 
drive. 

Deborah had gone back to her usual work ; it was impos- 
sible to spare her longer. But she still helped in the heaviest 


*YOU WERE RIGHT, ESTHER! 20 ? 

part of the nursing, and came from time to time to look 
after us both. 

Dot had remained for six weeks at the Cedars ; but 
mother missed him so much that Uncle Geoffrey decided to 
bring him home ; and how glad and thankful I was to get 
my darling back ! 

I saw very little of him, however, for, strange to say, 
Carrie did not care for him and Jack to stay long in the 
room. I was not surprised that Jack fidgeted her, for she 
was restless and noisy, and her loud voice aiM awkward 
manners would jar sadly on an invalid ; but Dot was 
different. 

In a sick-room he was as quiet as a little mouse, and he 
had such nice ways. It grieved me to see Carrie shade her 
eyes in that pained manner when he hobbled in softly on 
his crutches. 

‘ Carrie always cries when she sees me ! ’ Dot said once, 
with a little quiver of his lips. Alas ! we neither of us 
understood the strange misery that even the sight of her 
afflicted little brother caused her. 

Mother had gone downstairs when she had made her 
little protest about Mrs. Smedley, and we were left alone 
together. I was resting in the low-cushioned chair Euth 
had sent me in the early days of Carrie’s illness, and was 
watching the fire in a quiet fashion that had become 
habitual to me. The room looked snug and pleasant in the 
twilight ; the little bed on which I slept was in the farthest 
corner ; a bouquet of hothouse flowers stood on the little 
round table, with some books Mr. Lucas had sent up for 
me. It must have looked cheerful to Carrie as she lay 
amongst the pillows ; but to my dismay there were tears 
on her cheeks — I could see them glistening in the firelight. 

‘ Do you feel less well to-night, dear ? ’ I asked, 
anxiously, as I took a seat beside her ; but she shook her 
head. 

‘ I am better, much better,’ was her reply, ‘ thanks to you 
and Deborah and Uncle Geoffrey,’ but her smile was very 
sad as she spoke. ^ How good you have been to me, Esther 


2o6 


ESTHER. 


— how kind and patient ! Sometimes I have looked at you 
when you were asleep over there, and I have cried to see 
how thin and weary you looked in your sleep, and all 
through me.' 

‘Nonsense,’ I returned, kissing her; but my voice was 
not quite clear. 

‘ Allan will say so to-night when he sees you — you are 
not the same, Esther. Your eyes are graver, and you seem 
to have forgotten how to laugh, and it is all my fault.’ 

‘ Dear Carrie, I wish you would not talk so.’ 

‘ Let me talk a little to-night,’ she pleaded. ‘ I feel 
better and stronger, and it will be such a relief to tell you 
some of my thoughts. I have been silent for nine weeks, 
and sometimes the pent-up pain has been more than I could 
bear.’ 

‘ My poor Carrie,’ stroking the thin white hand on the 
coverlid. 

‘ Yes, I am that,’ she sighed. ‘ Do you remember our 
old talks together ? Oh, how wise you were, Esther, but I 
would not listen to you ; you were all for present duties. I 
can recollect some of your words now. You told me our 
work lay before us, close to us, at our very feet, and yet I 
would stretch out my arms for more, till my own burdens 
crushed me, and I fell beneath them.’ 

‘ You attempted too much,’ I returned ; ‘ your intention 
was good, but you overstrained your powers.’ 

‘ You are putting it too mildly,’ she returned, with a 
great sadness in her voice. ‘ Esther, I have had time to 
think since I have lain here, and I have been reviewing 
your life and mine. I wanted to see where the fault lay, 
and how I had missed my path. God was taking away 
my work from me ; the sacrifice I offered was not accept- 
able.’ - • 

‘ Oh, my dear, hush ! ’ But she lifted her hand feebly 
and laid it on my lips. 

‘ It was weeks before I found it out, but I think I see it 
clearly now. We were both in earnest about our duty, we 
both wanted to do the best we could for others; but. 


‘ YOU WERE RIGHT, ESTHER: 


207 

Esther, after all it was you who were right; you did not 
turn against the work that was brought to you — your 
teaching, and house, and mother, and Dot, and even Jack 
— all that came first, and you knew it ; you have worked in 
the corner of the vineyard that was appointed to you, and 
never murmured over its barrenness and narrow space, 
and so you are ripe and ready for any great work that 
may be waiting for you in the future. Faithful in little, 
faithful in much — how often have I applied those words 
to you ! ’ 

I tried to stem the torrent of retrospection, but nothing 
v/ould silence her ; as she said herself, the pent-up feelings 
must have their course. But why did she judge herself so 
bitterly ? It pained me inexpressibly to hear her. 

‘ If I had only listened to you ! ’ she went on ; ‘ but my 
spiritual self-will blinded me. I despised my work. Oh, 
Esther ! you cannot contradict me ; you know how bitterly 
I spoke of the little Thornes ; how I refused to take them 
into my heart ; how scornfully I spoke of my ornamental 
brickmaking.' 

I could not gainsay her words on that point; I knew 
her to be wrong. 

‘ I wanted to choose my work ; that was the fatal error. 
I spurned the little duties at my feet, and looked out for 
some great work that I must do. Teaching the little 
Thornes was hateful to me ; yet I could teach ragged 
children in the Sunday-school for hours. Mending Jack’s 
things and talking to mother were wearisome details ; yet 
I could toil through fog and rain in Nightingale-lane, and 
feel no fatigue. My work was impure, my motives tainted 
by self-will. Could it be accepted by Him who was subject 
to His parents for thirty years, who worked at the car- 
penter’s bench, when He could have preached to thou- 
sands ? ' And here she broke down, and wept bitterly. 

What could I answer ? How could I apply comfort to 
one so sorely wounded ? And yet through it all who could 
doubt her goodness ? 

‘ Dear Carrie,' I whispered, ^ if this be all true, if there 


208 


ESTHER. 


be no exaggeration, no morbid conscientiousness in all you 
say, still, you have repented, and your punishment has 
been severe.’ 

‘ My punishment ! ’ she returned, in a voice almost of 
despair. ‘ Why do you speak of it as past, when you know 
I shall bear the consequences of my own imprudence all 
my life long ? This is what is secretly fretting me. I try 
to bow myself to His will ; but, oh ! it is so hard not to be 
allowed to make amends, not to be allowed to have a 
chance of doing better for the future, not to be allowed to 
make up for all my deficiencies in the past ; but just to 
suffer and be a burden.’ 

I looked at her with frightened eyes. What could she 
mean, when she was getting better every day, and Uncle 
Geoffrey hoped she might be downstairs by Christmas 
Day ? 

‘Is it possible you do not know, Esther?’ she said 
incredulously ; but two red spots came into her thin 
cheeks. ‘ Have not mother and Uncle Geoffrey told 
you ? ’ 

‘ They have told me nothing,’ I repeated. ‘ Oh, Carrie, 
what do you mean ? You are not going to die ? ’ 

‘ To die ? Oh, no ! ’ in a tone of unutterable regret. 
‘ Should I be so sorry for myself if I thought that ? I am 
getting well ’ — ‘ well ’ wdth a slight catching of her breath 
— ‘ but when I come downstairs I shall be like Dot.’ 

I do not know what I said in answer to this terrible reve- 
lation. Uncle Geoffrey had never told me ; Carrie had only 
extorted the truth from him with difficulty. My darling 
gild a cripple ! It was Carrie who tried to comfort me as I 
knelt sobbing beside her. 

‘ Oh, Esther, how you cry ! Don’t, my dear, don't. It 
makes me still more unhappy. Have I told you too 
suddenly? But you must know. That is why I could 
not bear to see Dot come into the room. But I mean to 
get over my foolishness.’ 

But I attempted no answer. ‘ Cruel, cruel ! ’ were the 
only words that forced themselves through my teeth. 


rvou WERE RIGHT, ESTHER: 


209 

* You shall not say that,’ she returned, stroking my hair. 

^ How can it be cruel if it be meant for my good ? I have 
feared this all along, Esther; the mischief has set in in one 
hip. It is not the suffering, but the thought of my help- 
lessness that frightens me.’ And here her sweet eyes filled 
with tears. 

Oh, how selfish I was, when I ought to have been com- 
forting her, if only the words would come ! And then a 
sudden thought came to me. 

‘ They also serve who only stand and wait,’ and I 
repeated the line softly, and a sort of inspiration came 
over me. 

‘Carrie,’ I said, embracing her, ‘this must be the work 
the loving Saviour has now for you to do. This is the 
Cross He would have you take up, and He who died to 
save the sinful and unthankful will give you grace sufficient 
to your need.’ 

‘ Yes, I begin to think it is ! ’ she returned ; and a light 
came into her eyes, and she lay back in a satisfied manner. 
‘ I never thought of it in that way ; it seemed my punish- 
ment — just taking away my work, and leaving me nothing 
but helplessness and emptiness.’ 

‘ And now you will look at it as still more difficult work. 
Oh, Carrie, what will mine be compared to that — to see 
you patient under suffering, cheerfully enduring, not mur- 
muring or repining ? What will that be but preaching to 
us daily ? ’ 

‘ That will do,’ she answered faintly ; ‘ I must think it 
out. You have done more for me this afternoon than 
anyone has.’ And seeing how exhausted she was, I left 
her, and stole back to my place. 

She slept presently, and I sat still in the glimmering 
firelight, listening to the sounds downstairs that told of 
Allan’s arrival ; but I could not go down and show my 
tear-stained face. Deborah came up presently to lay the 
little tea-table, and then Carrie woke up, and I waited 
on her as usual, and tried to coax her failing appetite ; 
and by-and-by came the expected tap at the door. 

p 


210 


ESTHER. 


Of course it was Allan ; no one but himself would come 
in with that alert step and cheerful voice. 

‘ Well, Carrie, my dear,’ he said, affectionately bending 
over her as she looked up at him — whatever he felt at the 
sight of her changed face he kept to himself ; he kissed me, 
without a word, and took his seat by the bedside. 

‘ You know, Allan ? ’ she whispered, as he took her 
hand. 

‘ Yes, I know ; Uncle Geoffrey has told me ; but it 
may not be as bad as you think — you have much for 
which to be thankful ; for weeks he never thought you 
would get over it. What does it matter about the lame- 
ness, Carrie, when you have come back to us from the 
very jaws of death ?’ and his voice trembled a little. 

‘ I felt badly about it until Esther talked to me,* she 
returned. ‘ Esther has been such a nurse to me, Allan.* 

He looked at me as she said this, and his eyes glistened. 
‘ Esther is Esther,* he replied, laconically ; but I knew then 
how I satisfied him. 

When we were alone together that night — for I waited 
dowmstairs to say good-night to him, w^hile Deborah stayed 
wdth Carrie — he suddenly drew me tow’ards him and looked 
in my face. 

‘ Poor child,’ he said, tenderly, ^ it is time I came home 
to relieve you : you have grown a visionary, unsubstantial 
Esther, with large eyes and a thin face; but somehow I 
never liked the look of you so well.’ 

That made me smile. ‘ Oh, Allan, how nice it is to have 
you with me again ! ’ 

‘ Nice ! I should think so ; what walks we will have, by 
the bye. I mean to have Carrie dowmstairs before a week 
is over ; what is the good of you both moping upstairs ? I 
shall alter all that.’ 

‘ She is too weak to move,’ I returned, dubiously. 

‘ But she is not too weak to be carried. You are keeping 
her too quiet, and she wants rousing a little ; she feeds too 
much on her owm thoughts, and it is bad for her ; she is 
such a little saint, you know,’ continued Allan, half 


•yO[/ WERE RIGHT, ESTHER! 21 1 

jestingly, ‘ she wants to be leavened a little with our 
wickedness.’ 

‘ She is good ; you would say so if you heard her 
talk.’ 

‘ Not a bit more good than some other people — Miss 
Euth, for example ; ’ but I could see from his mischievous 
eyes that he was not thinking of Euth. How well and 
handsome he was looking : he had grown broader, and there 
was an air of manliness about him — ‘ my bonnie lad,’ as I 
called him. 

I went to bed that night with greater contentment in my 
heart, because Allan had come home; and even Carrie 
seemed cheered by the hopeful view he had taken of her 
case. 

‘ He thinks, perhaps, that after some years I may not be 
quite so helpless,’ she whispered, as I said good-night to 
her, and her face looked composed and quiet in the fading 
firelight ; ‘ anyhow, I mean to bear it as well as I can, and 
not give you more trouble.’ 

‘ I do not think it a trouble,’ was my answer as her arms 
released me; and as I lay awake watching the gleaming 
shadows in the room, I thought how sweet such ministry is 
to those we love, their very helplessness endearing them to 
us. After all, this illness had drawn us closer together, 
we were more now as sisters should be, united in sympathy 
and growing deeper into each other’s hearts. ‘ How 
pleasant it is to live in unity ! ’ said the Psalmist ; and the 
echo of the words seemed to linger in my mind until I fell 
asleep. 




Santa (Claus. 

A FTER all Allan’s sanguine prog- 
/A nostication was not fulfilled. 
The new year had opent d well 
upon us before Carrie joined the 
family circle downstairs. 

But the sick-room was a different place now, when we 
had Allan’s cheery visits to enliven our long evenings. A 
brighter element seemed introduced into the house. I 
wondered if Carrie felt as I did ! if her heart leapt up with 
pleasure at the sound of his merry whistle, or the light 
springing footsteps that seemed everywhere ! 

His vigorous will seemed to dominate over the whole 
household ; he would drag me out peremptorily for what he 
called wholesome exercise, which meant long, scrambling 
walks, which sent me home with tingling pulses and 
exuberant spirits, until the atmosphere of the sick-room 
moderated and subdued them again. 

He continued to relieve me in many ways ; sometimes he 
would come in upon us in his quick, alert way, and bundle 
me and my work-basket downstairs, ordering me to talk to 
mother, while he gave Carrie a dose of his company. Per- 
haps the change was good for her, for I always fancied she 
looked less depressed when I saw her again. 

Our choice of reading displeased him not a little ; the 
religious biographies and sentimental sacred poetry that 


SANTA CLAUS. 


213 

Carrie specially affected were returned to the bookshelves 
by our young physician with an unsparing hand; he 
actually scolded me in no measured terms for what he 
called my want of sense. 

‘ What a goose you are, Esther ! ' he said, in a disgusted 
voice; ‘but, there, you women are all alike,’ continued the 
youthful autocrat. ‘ You pet one another’s morbid fancies, 
and do no end of harm. Because Carrie wants cheering, 
you keep her low with all these books, which feed her 
gloomy ideas. What do you say ? she likes it ; well, many 
people like what is not good for them. I tell you she is not 
in a fit state for this sort of reading, and unless you will 
abide by my choice of books I will get Uncle Geoffrey to 
forbid them altogether.’ 

Carrie looked ready to cry at this fierce tirade, but I am 
afraid I only laughed in Allan’s face ; still, we had to 
mind him. He set me to work, I remember, on some 
interesting book of travels, that carried both of us far from 
Milnthorpe, and set us down in wonderful tropical regions, 
where we lost ourselves and our troubles in gorgeous 
descriptions. 

One evening I came up and found Allan reading the 
Merchmit of Venice to her, and actually Carrie was en- 
joying it. 

‘ He reads so well,’ she said, rather apologetically, as she 
caught sight of my amused face ; she did not like to own 
even to me that she found it more interesting than listening 
to Henry Martyn’s life. 

It charmed us both to hear the sound of her soft laugh ; 
and Allan went downstairs well satisfied with the result of 
his prescription. 

On Christmas Eve I had a great treat. Euth wanted me 
to spend the evening with her ; and as she took Carrie into 
her confidence, she got her way without difficulty. Carrie 
arranged everything ; mother was to sit with her, and then 
Allan and Deborah would help her to bed. I was to enjoy 
myself and have a real holiday, and not come home until 
Allan fetched me. 


ESTHER, 


214 

I had quite a holiday feeling as I put on my new cash- 
mere dress. Euth had often fetched me for a drive, but I 
had not been inside the Cedars for months, and the pros- 
pect of a long evening there was delicious. 

Flurry ran out into the hall to meet me, and even Giles’s 
grave face relaxed into a smile as he hoped ‘ Miss Cameron 
was better ; ’ but Flurry would hardly let me answer, she 
was so eager to show me the wreaths auntie and she had 
made, and to whisper that she had hung out a stocking for 
Santa Claus to fill, and that Santa Claus was going to fill 
one for Dot too ! 

‘ Come in, you naughty little chatterbox, and do not 
keep Esther in the hall,’ exclaimed Euth, from the cur- 
tained doorway; and the next minute I had my arms 
round her. Oh, the dear room ! how cosy it looked after 
my months of absence ; no other room, not even mother’s 
pretty drawing-room at Combe Manor, was so entirely to 
my taste. 

There was the little square tea-table, as usual, and the 
dark blue china cups and saucers, and the wax candles 
in their silver sconces, and white china lamp, and the 
soft glow of the ruddy firelight playing into the dim 
corner. 

Euth drew up the low rocking chair, and took off my hat 
and jacket, and smoothed my hair. 

' How nice you look, Esther ! and what a pretty dress ! 
Is that Allan’s present ? But you are still very thin, my 
dear.’ 

‘ Oh, I am all right,’ I returned, carelessly ; for what 
did it matter how I looked, now Carrie was better ? ‘ Dear 

Euth,’ I whispered, as she still stood beside me, ‘I can 
think of nothing but the pleasure of being with you 
again.’ 

‘ I hope you mean to include me in that last speech,’ 
said a voice behind me ; and there was Mr. Lucas standing 
laughing at us. He had come through the curtained door- 
way unheard, and I rose in some little confusion to shake 
hands. 


SANTA CLAUS. 


215 

To my surprise, he echoed Miss Euth’s speech ; but then 
he had not seen me for three months. I had been through 
so much since we last met. 

‘ What have they been doing to you, my poor child ? ’ 
Those were actually his words, and his eyes rested on my 
face with quite a grieved, pitying expression. 

‘Allan told me I was rather unsubstantial-looking,’ I 
returned, trying to speak lightly ; but somehow the tears 
came to my eyes. ‘ I was so tired before he came home, 
but now I am getting rested.’ 

‘ I wonder at Dr. Cameron letting a child like you work 
so hard,’ he retorted, quite abruptly. He had called me 
child twice, and I was eighteen and a half, and feeling so 
old — so old. I fancy Euth saw my lip quiver, for she 
hastily interposed — 

‘ Let her sit down, Giles, and I will give her some tea. 
She looks as cold as a little starved robin.’ 

And after that no one spoke again of my altered looks. It 
troubled me for a few minutes, and then it passed out of 
my mind. 

After all, it could not be helped if I were a little thin and 
worn. The strain of those three months had been terrible ; 
the daily spectacle of physical suffering before my eyes, the 
wakeful nights, the long monotonous days, and then the 
shock of knowing that Carrie must be a cripple, had all been 
too much for me. 

We talked about it presently, while Flurry sat like a 
mouse at my feet, turning over the pages of a new book 
of fairy tales. The kind sympathy they both showed 
me broke down the barrier of my girlish reserve, and I 
found comfort in speaking of the dreary past. I did not mind 
Mr. Lucas in the least ; he showed such evident interest in all 
I told them. After dinner he joined us again in the drawing- 
room, instead of going as usual for a short time to his 
study. 

‘ When are you coming back to stay with us ? ’ he asked, 
suddenly, as he stirred the logs until they emitted a 
shower of sparks. 


2i6 


ESTHER. 


‘ Yes,’ echoed his sister, ‘ Carrie is so much better now 
that we think it high time for you to resume your duties ; 
poor Flurry has been neglected enough.’ 

My answer was simply to look at them both ; the idea 
of renewing work had never occurred to me ; how could 
Carrie spare me ? And yet ought I not to do my part all 
the more, now she was laid by ? For a moment the sense 
of conflicting duties oppressed me. 

‘ Please do not look pale over it,’ observed Mr. Lucas, 
kindly; ‘but you do not mean, I suppose, to be always 
chained to your sister’s couch ? That will do neither of 
you any good.’ 

‘Oh no, I must work, of course,’ I returned, breathlessly. 
‘ Carrie will not be able to do anything, so it is the more 
necessary for me, but not yet — not until we have her 
downstairs.’ 

‘ Then we will give you three weeks’ grace,’ observed 
Mr. Lucas, coolly. ‘ It is as you say, with your usual g od 
sense, absolutely necessary that one of you should work ; 
and as Flurry has been without a governess long enough, 
we shall expect you to resume your duties in three weeks’ 
time.’ 

I was a little perplexed by this speech, it was so 
dignified and peremptory; but looking up I could see a 
little smile breaking out at the corner of his mouth. Euth 
too seemed amused. 

‘ Very w^ell,’ I returned in the same voice ; ‘ I must be 
punctual, or I shall expect my dismissal.’ 

‘ Of course you must be punctual,’ he retorted ; and the 
subject dropped, but I perceived he was in earnest under 
his jesting way. Flurry’s governess was wanted back, 
that was clear. 

As for me, the mere notion of resuming my daily work 
at the Cedars w^as almost too delightful to contemplate. I 
had an odd idea, that missing them all had something to 
do with my sober feelings. I felt it when I went up to 
kiss Flurry in her little bed ; the darling child was lying 
awake for me. 


SANTA CLAUS. 


217 


She made me lie down on the bed beside her, and hugged 
me close with her warm arms, and her hair fell over my 
face like a veil, and then prattled to me about Santa Claus 
and the wonderful gifts she expected. 

‘ Will Santa Claus bring you anything, Esther ? ’ 

* Not much, I fear,’ was my amused answer. We were 
rather a gift-loving family, and at Combe Manor our 
delight had been to load the breakfast table on Christmas 
Day with presents for every member of the family, including 
servants ; but of course now our resources were limited, 
and I expected few presents ; but in my spare time I had 
contrived a few surprises in the shape of work. A set of 
embroidered baby linen for Flurry’s best doll, dainty 
enough for a fairy baby ; a white fleecy shawl for mother, 
and another for Carrie, and a chair-back for Euth ; she was 
fond of pretty things, but I certainly did not look for much 
in return. 

Allan had brought me that pretty dress from London, 
and another for Carrie, and he had not Fortunatus’ purse, 
13001' fellow ! 

‘ I have got a present for you,’ whispered Flurry, and 
I could imagine how round and eager her eyes were; I 
think with a little encouragement she would have told 
me what it was ; but I assured her that I should enjoy the 
surprise. 

‘ It won’t keep you awake trying to guess, will it ? ’ she 
asked, anxiously ; and when I said no, she seemed a little 
disappointed. 

‘ Dot has got one too,’ she observed, presently ; but I 
knew all about that. Dot was laboriously filling an 
album with his choicest works of art. His fingers were 
always stained with paint or Indian ink at meal-times, 
and if I unexpectedly entered the room, I could see a 
square-shaped book being smuggled away under the table- 
cloth. 

I think these sudden rushes were rather against the 
general finish of the pictures, causing in some places 
an unsightly smudge or a blotchy appearance. In one 


2I8 


ESTHER, 


page the Tower of Babel was disfigured by this very 
injudicious haste, and the bricks and the builders were 
wholly indistinguishable for a sad blotch of ochre ; still, 
the title-page made up for all such defects : ‘ To my 
dear sister, Esther, from her affectionate little brother, 
Frankie.’ 

‘ Aunt Euth has one, too,’ continued Flurry ; but at 
this point I thought it better to say good night. As it 
was, I found Allan had been waiting for me nearly half- 
an-hour, and pretended to growl at me for my dawdling, 
though in reality he was thoroughly enjoying his talk 
with Euth. 

Carrie was awake when I entered the room; she was 
lying watching the fire. She welcomed me with her 
sweetest smile, and though I fancied her cheek was wet as 
I kissed it her voice was very tranquil. 

‘ Have you had a pleasant evening, Esther ? ’ 

‘Very pleasant. Have you missed me very much, 
darling ? ’ 

‘ I always miss you,’ she replied, gently ; ‘ but Allan has 
done his best to make the time pass quickly. And then 
dear mother was so good ; she has been sitting with me 
ever so long ; we have had such a nice talk. Somehow I 
begin to feel as if I had never known what mother was 
before.’ 

I knew Carrie wanted to tell me all about it, but I 
pretended I was tired, and that it was time to be asleep. 
So she said no more ; she was submissive to us even in 
trifles now ; and very soon I heard the sound of her soft, 
regular breathing. 

As for me, I laid wide awake for hours ; my evening had 
excited me. The thought of resuming my happy duties at 
the Cedars pleased and exhilarated me. How kind and 
thoughtful they had been for my comfort, how warmly I 
had been welcomed ! 

I fell to sleep at last, and dreamed that Santa Claus had 
brought me a mysterious present. The wrappers were so 
many that Deborah woke me before I reached the final. 


SANTA CLAUS. 


219 

I remember I had quite a childish feeling of disappoint- 
ment when my pleasant dream was broken. 

What a Christmas morning that was ! Outside the trees 
w^ere bending with hoar-frost, a scanty whiteness lay on 
the lawn, and the soft mysterious light of coming snow 
seemed to envelope everything. Inside the fire burned 
ruddily, and Carrie lay smiling upon her pillows, with a 
little parcel in her outstretched hands. I thought of my 
unfinished dream, and told it to her as I unfolded the 
silver paper that wrapped the little box. 

‘ Oh, Carrie ! ’ I exclaimed, for there was her little 
amethyst cross and beautiful filagree chain ; that had 
been father’s gift to her, the prettiest ornament she 
possessed, and that had been my secret admiration for 
years. 

‘ I want you to have it,’ she said, smiling, well pleased at 
my astonished face. ‘ I can never wear it again, Esther ; 
the world and I have parted company. I shall like to see 
you in it. I wish it w^ere twice as good ; I wish it were of 
priceless value, for nothing is too good for my dear little 
sister.’ 

I was very near crying over the little box, and Carrie 
was praising the thickness and beauty of her shawl, 
when in came Dot, with his scrap-book under his arm, 
and Jack with a wonderful pen- wiper she had concocted, 
with a cat and kitten she had marvellously executed in 
grey cloth. 

Nor was this all. Downstairs a perfect array of parcels 
was grouped round my plate. There was a book from 
Allan, and a beautiful little travelling desk from Uncle 
Geoffrey. Mother had been searching in her jewel case, 
and had produced a pearl ring, which she presented to me 
with many kisses. 

But the greatest surprise of all was still in store for me. 
Flurry’s gift proved to be a very pretty little photograph 
of herself and Flossy, set in a velvet frame. Euth’s was 
an ivory prayer-book; but beside it lay a little parcel, 
directed in Mr. Lucas’s handwriting, and a note inside 


220 


ESTHER, 


begging me to accept a slight tribute of his gratitude. I 
opened it with a trembling hand, and there was an 
exquisite little watch, with a short gold chain attached 
to it — a perfect little beauty, as even Allan declared it 
to be. 

I was only eighteen, and I suppose most girls would 
understand my rapture at the sight. Until now a silver 
watch with a plain black guard had been my only 
possession ; this I presented to Jack on the spot, and was 
in consequence nearly hugged to death. 

‘ How kind, how kind ! ’ was all I could say ; and mother 
seemed nearly as pleased as I was. As for Uncle Geoffrey 
and Allan, they took it in an offhand and masculine 
fashion. 

‘ Very proper, very prettily done,’ remarked Uncle 
Geoffrey, approvingly. ‘ You see he has reason to be 
grateful to you, my dear, and Mr. Lucas is just the man to 
acknowledge it in the most fitting way.’ 

‘ I always said he was a brick,’ was Allan’s uncere- 
monious retort. ‘It is no more than he ought to have 
done, for your pluckiness saved Flurry.’ But to their 
surprise I turned on them with hot cheeks. 

‘ I have done nothing, it is all their kindness and 
goodness to me ; it is far too generous. However shall I 
thank him ? ’ And then I snatched up my treasure, and 
^ ran upstairs to show it to Carrie ; and I do not think there 
was a happier girl that Christmas morning than Esther 
Cameron. 

The one drawback to my pleasure was — how I was to 
thank Mr. Lucas ? But I was spared this embarrassment, 
for he and Flurry waited after service in the porch for us, 
and walked down High-street. 

He came to my side at once with a glimmer of fun in his 
grave eyes. 

‘ Well, Miss Esther, has Santa Claus been good to you ? 
or has he taken too great a liberty ? ’ 

‘ Oh, Mr. Lucas,’ I began, in a stammering fashion, but 
he held up his hand peremptorily. 


SANTA CLAUS 


221 


‘ Not a word, not a syllable, if you please ; the debt is all 
on my side, and you do not fancy it can be paid in such a 
paltry fashion. I am glad you are not offended with me, 
that is all.’ And then he proceeded to ask kindly after 
Carrie. 

His manner set me quite at my ease, and I was able to 
talk to him as usual. Dot was at the window watching for 
our approach. He clapped his hands delightedly at the 
sight of Mr. Lucas and Flurry. 

‘ I suppose I must come in a moment to see my little 
friend,’ he said, in a kindly voice, and in another moment 
he was comfortably seated in our parlour with Dot climbing 
on his knee. 

I never remember a happier Christmas till then, though, 
thank God, I have known still happier ones since. True, 
Carrie could not join the family gathering downstairs; 
but after the early dinner we all went up to her room, and 
sat in a pleasant circle round the fire. 

Only Fred was missing; except the dear father who lay in 
the quiet churchyard near Combe Manor ; but we had bright, 
satisfactory letters from him, and hoped that on the whole 
he was doing well. 

We talked of him a good deal, and then it was that Dot 
announced his grand purpose of being an artist. 

‘ When I am a man,’ he finished, in a serious voice, ‘ I 
mean to work harder than Fred, and paint great big 
pictures, and perhaps some grand nobleman will buy them 
of me.’ 

‘I wonder what your first subject will be, Frankie?’ 
asked Allan, in a slightly amused voice. He was turning 
over Dot’s scrap-book, and was looking at the Tower of 
Babel in a puzzled way. 

‘ The Ketreat of the Ten Thousand under Xenophon,’ 
was the perfectly startling answer, at which Allan opened 
his eyes rather widely, and Uncle Geoffrey laughed. Dot 
looked injured and a little cross. 

‘ People always laugh when I want to talk sense,’ he said, 
rather loftily. 


222 


ESTHER. 


‘Never mind, Frankie, we won’t laugh any more,’ 
returned Allan, eager to soothe his favourite ; ‘ it is a big 
subject, but you have plenty of years to work it out 
in, and after all the grand thing in life is to aim high.’ 
Which speech, being slightly unintelligible, mollified Dot’s 
wrath. 



T he next great event in our family annals was Carrie’s 
first appearance downstairs. 

Uncle Geoffrey had long wished her to make the 
effort, but she had made some excuse and put it off from 
day to day; but at last Allan took it into his head to 
manage things after his usual arbitrary fashion, and 
one afternoon he marched into the room, and, quietly 
lifting Carrie in his arms, as though she were a baby, 
desired me to follow with her crutches, while he carried her 
downstairs. 

Carrie trembled a good deal, and turned very v/hite, but 
she offered no remonstrance ; and when Allan put her 
down outside the parlour door, she took her crutches 
from me in a patient, uncomplaining way that touched us 
both. 

I always said we ought to have prepared Dot, but Allan 
would not hear of my telling him; but when the door 
opened and Carrie entered, walking slowly and painfully, 
being still unused to her crutches, we were all startled by a 
loud cry from Dot. 

* She is like me ! Oh, poor, poor Carrie ! ’ cried the little 
fellow, with a sob ; and he broke into such a fit of crying 


ESTHER. 


224 

that mother was quite upset. It was in vain we tried to 
soothe him ; that Carrie drew him towards her with trem- 
bling arms and kissed him, and whispered that it was God’s 
will, and she did not mind so very much now ; he only kept 
repeating, ‘ She is like me — oh, dear — oh, dear ! she is like 
me,’ in a woe-begone little voice. 

Dot was so sensitive that I feared the shock would make 
him ill, but Allan came at last to the rescue. He had been 
called out of the room for a moment, and came back to find 
a scene of dire confusion — it took so little to upset mother, 
and really it was heartbreaking to all of us to see the child’s 
grief. 

‘ Hallo, sonny, what’s up now ? ’ asked Allan, in a comical 
voice, lifting up Dot’s tear-stained face for a nearer inspec- 
tion. 

‘ Oh, she is like me,’ gasped Dot ; * she has those horrid 
things, you know ; and it’s too bad, it’s too bad ! ’ he finished, 
with another choking sob. 

‘ Nonsense,’ returned Allan, with sturdy cheerfulness ; 
‘ she won’t use them always, you silly boy.’ 

‘ Not always ! ’ returned Dot, with a woe-begone, puckered- 
up face. 

‘ Of course not, you little goose — or gander, I mean ; she 
may have to hobble about on them for a year or two, per- 
haps longer ; but Uncle Geoff and I mean to set her all right 
again — don’t we, Carrie?’ 

Carrie’s answer was a dubious smile. She did not be 
lieve in her own recovery ; but to Dot, Allan’s words were 
full of complete comfort. 

‘ Oh, I am so glad, I am so glad ! ’ cried the unselfish 
little creature. ‘ I don’t mind a bit for myself ; I shouldn’t 
be Dot without my sticks, but it seemed so dreadful for poor 
Carrie.’ 

And then, as she kissed him, with tears in her eyes, he 
whispered ‘ that she was not to mind, for Allan would soon 
make her all right : he always did.’ 

Carrie tried to be cheerful that evening, but it cost her a 
great effort. It was hard returning to everyday life, without 


ALLAN AND I WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN. 22$ 

strength or capacity for its duties, with no bright prospect 
dawning in the future, only a long, grey horizon of present 
monotony and suffering. But here the consolation of the 
Gospel came to her help ; the severe test of her faith proved 
its reality ; and her submission and total abnegation of 
will brought her the truest comfort in her hour of need. 

Looking back on this part of our lives, I believe Carrie 
needed just this discipline ; like many other earnest workers, 
she made an idol of her work. It cost her months of suffering 
before she realised that God does not always need our work ; 
that a chastened will is more acceptable to Him than the 
labour we think so all-sufficient. Sad lesson to poor human 
pride, that believes so much in its own efforts, and yet that 
many a one laid by in the vigour of life and work, has to 
learn so painfully. Oh, hardest of all work, to do nothing 
while others toil round us, to wait and look on, knowing 
God’s ways are not our ways, that the patient endurance 
of helplessness is the duty ordained for us ! 

Carrie had to undergo another ordeal the following day, 
for she was just settled on her couch when Mrs. Smedley 
entered unannounced. 

I had never liked Mrs. Smedley ; indeed, at one time I 
was very near hating her ; but I could not help feeling sorry 
for the woman when I saw how her face twitched and worked 
at the sight of her favourite. 

Carrie’s altered looks must have touched her con- 
science. Carrie was a little nervous, but she soon recovered 
herself. 

‘ You must not be sorry for me,’ she said, taking her 
hand, for actually Mrs. Smedley could hardly speak ; tears 
stood in her hard eyes, and then she motioned to me to leave 
them together. 

I never knew what passed between them, but I am sure 
Mrs. Smedley had been crying when I returned to the 
room. She rose at once, making some excuse about the 
lateness of the hour, and then she did what she never had 
done before — kissed me quite affectionately, and hoped they 
would soon see me at the Vicarage. 

Q 


226 


ESTHER, 


‘ There, that is over,’ said Carrie, as if to herself, in a 
relieved tone ; but she did not seem disposed for any ques- 
tioning, so I let her close her eyes and think over the inter- 
view in silence. 

The next day was a very eventful one. I had made up 
my mind to speak to mother and Carrie that morning, and 
announce my intention of going back to the Cedars. I was 
afraid it would be rather a blow to Carrie, and I wanted to 
get it over. 

In two or three days the three weeks’ leave of absence 
would be over — Euth would be expecting to hear from me. 
The old saying, ‘ Uliomine propose, Dieu dispose,' was true 
in this case. I had little idea that morning, when I came 
down to breakfast, that all my cherished plans were to be 
set aside, and all through old Aunt Podgill. 

Why, I had never thought of her for years ; and, as far 
as I can tell, her name had not been mentioned in our 
family circle, except on the occasion of dear father’s death, 
when Uncle Geoffrey observed that he or Fred must write 
to her. She was father’s and Uncle Geoffrey’s aunt, on 
their mother’s side, but she had quarrelled with them when 
they were mere lads, and had never spoken to them since. 
Uncle Geoffrey was most in her black books, and she had 
not deigned to acknowledge his letter. 

‘ A cantankerous old woman,’ I remember he had called 
her on that occasion, and had made no further effort to 
propitiate her. 

It was rather a shock, then, to hear Aunt Podgill’s name 
uttered in a loud voice by Allan, as I entered the room, 
and my surprise deepened into astonishment to find mother 
was absolutely crying over a black-edged letter. 

‘ Poor Mrs. Podgill is dead,’ explained Uncle Geoffrey, in 
rather a subdued voice, as I looked at him. 

But the news did not affect me much ; I thought 
mother’s handkerchief need hardly be applied to her eyes 
on that account. 

‘ That is a pity, of course ; but, then, none of us knew her,’ 
I remarked, coldly. ‘ She could not have been very nice, 


ALLAN AND I WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN. 22 / 

from your account, Uncle Geoffrey, so I do not know why 
we have to be so sorry for her death,’ for I was as aggrieved 
as possible at the sight of mother’s handkerchief. 

‘ Well, she was a cantankerous old woman,’ began Uncle 
Geoffrey ; and then he checked himself and added, ‘ Heaven 
forgive me for speaking against the poor old creature now 
she is dead.’ 

‘ Yes, indeed, I have a great respect for Aunt Podgill,’ 
put in Allan ; and I thought his voice was rather curious, 
and there was a repressed mirthful gleam in his eyes, and 
all the time mother went on crying. 

‘ Oh, my dear,’ she sobbed at last, ‘ I am very foolish to 
be so overcome ; but if it had only come in Frank’s — in 
your father’s time, it might — it might have saved him ; ’ 
and here she broke down. 

‘ Ah, to be sure, poor thing ! ’ ejaculated Uncle Geoffrey 
in a sympathising tone ; ‘ that is what is troubling her ; 
but you must cheer up, Dora, for, as I have always 
told you, Frank was never meant to be a long-lived 
man.’ 

‘ What are you all talking about ? ’ I burst out, with 
vexed impatience. ‘ What has Mrs. Podgill’s death to do 
with father ? and why is mother crying ? and what makes 
you all so mysterious and tiresome ? ’ for I was exasperated 
at the incongruity between mother’s tears and Allan’s 
amused face. 

‘ Tell her,’ gasped out mother ; and Uncle Geoffrey, 
clearing his voice, proceeded to be spokesman, only Allan 
interrupted him at every word. 

‘Why, you see, child, your mother is just a little upset 
at receiving some good news ’ 

‘ Eattling good news,’ put in Allan. 

‘ It is natural for her, poor thing ! to think of your 
father; but we tell her that if he had been alive things 
would have shaped themselves differently ’ 

‘ Of course they would,’ from that tiresome Allan. 

‘ Aunt Podgill, being a cantankerous — I mean a pre- 
judiced — person, would never have forgotten her grudge 


228 


ESTHER. 


against your father ; but as in our last moments ‘‘ con- 
science makes cowards of us all,” as Shakespeare has it ’ 
— Uncle Geoffrey >al ways quoted Shakespeare when he was 
agitated, and Allan said ‘ Hear, hear ! ’ softly under his 
breath — ‘ she could not forget the natural claims of blood ; 
and so, my dear,’ clearing his throat a little more, ‘ she has 
left all her little fortune to your mother ; and a pretty 
little penny it is, close upon seven hundred a year, and the 
furniture besides.’ 

‘ Uncle Geoffrey ! * now it was my turn to gasp. Jack 
and Dot burst out laughing at my astonished face ; only 
Dot squeezed my hand, and whispered, ‘ Isn’t it splendid, 
Essie ? ’ Mother looked at me tearfully. 

‘ It is for your sakes I am glad, that my darling girls 
may not have to work. Carrie can have every comfort 
now ; and you can stay with us, Esther, and we need not 
be divided any longer.’ 

‘ Hurrah ! ’ shouted Dot, waving his spoon over his head; 
but I only kissed mother without speaking ; a strange, 
unaccountable feeling prevented me. If we were rich — or 
rather if we had this independence — I must not go on 
teaching Flurry ; my duty was at home with mother and 
Carrie. 

I could have beaten myself for my selfishness ; but it 
was true. Humiliating as it is to confess it, my first feel- 
ing was regret that my happy days at the Cedars w^ere 
over. 

‘ You do not seem pleased,’ observed Allan, shrew^dly, as 
he watched me. 

‘ I am so profoundly astonished that I am not capable 
of feeling,’ I returned hastily ; but I blushed a little 
guiltily. 

‘ It is almost too good to believe,’ he returned. ‘ I never 
liked the idea of you and Carrie doing anything, and yet it 
could not be helped ; so now you will all be able to stay at 
home and enjoy yourselves.’ 

Mother brightened up visibly at this. 

‘ That will be nice, will it not, Esther ? And Dot can 


ALLAN AND I WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN. 229 

have his lessons with you as usual. I was so afraid that 
Miss Euth would want you back soon, and that Carrie 
would be dull. How good of your Aunt Podgill to make 

us all so happy ! And if it were not for your father ’ 

and here the dear soul had recourse to her handkerchief 
again. 

If I was silent, no one noticed it ; every one was so 
eager in detailing his or her plans for the future. It was 
quite a relief when the lengthy breakfast was over, and I 
was free to go and tell Carrie ; somehow in the general 
excitement no one thought of her. I reproached mysell 
still more for my selfishness, and called myself all manner 
of hard names when I saw the glow of pleasure on hex 
pale face. 

‘ Oh, Esther, how nice ! How pleased dear mother must 
be ! Now we shall have you all to ourselves, and you need 
not be spending all your days away from us.' 

How strange! Carrie knew of my warm affection for 
Euth and Flurry, and yet it never occurred to her that I 
should miss my daily intercourse with them. It struck me 
then how often our nearest and dearest misunderstand or 
fail to enter into our feelings. 

The thought recurred to me more than once that morn- 
ing when I sat at my work listening to the discussion 
between her and mother. Carrie seemed a different 
creature that day ; the wonderful news had lifted her out 
of herself, and she rejoiced so fully and heartily in our 
good fortune that I was still more ashamed of myself, and 
yet I was glad too. 

‘ It seems so wonderful to me, mother,' Carrie was 
saying, in her sweet, serious way, ‘that just when I was 
laid by, and unable to keep myself or anyone else, that 
this provision should be made for us.' 

‘ Yes, indeed ; and then there is Dot, too, who will never 
be able to work,' observed mother. 

It was lucky Dot did not hear her, or we might have had 
a reproachful remme of his artistic intentions. 

‘ Dear mother, you need not be anxious any longer over 


ESTHER. 


230 

the fortune of your two cripples,’ returned Carrie, tenderly. 

‘ I shall not feel so much a burthen now ; and then we 
shall have Esther to look after us.’ And they both looked 
at me in a pleased, affectionate way. What could I do 
but put down my work and join in that innocent, loving 
talk? 

At our early dinner that day Allan seemed a little pre- 
occupied and silent, but towards the close of the meal he 
addressed me in his off-hand fashion. 

‘ I want you to come out with me this afternoon ; mother 
can look after Ca.rrie.’ 

‘ It is a half-holiday ; may I come, too ? ’ added Jack, 
coaxingly. 

‘ Wait till you are asked. Miss Jacky,* retorted Allan, 
good-humouredly. ‘ No, I don’t want your ladyship’s com- 
pany this afternoon ; I must have Esther to myself.’ And 
though Jack grumbled and looked discontented, he would 
not change his decision. 

I had made up my mind to see Euth, and tell her all 
about it ; but it never entered my head to dispute Allan’s 
will if he wanted me to walk with him. I must give up 
Euth, that was all ; and I hurried to put on my things, 
that I might not keep him waiting, as he possessed his full 
share of masculine impatience. 

I thought that he had some plan to propose to me ; but 
to my surprise he only talked about the most trivial sub- 
jects — the weather, the state of the roads, the prospects of 
skating. 

‘ Where are we going ? ’ I asked at last, for we were 
passing the Cedars, and Allan rarely walked in that 
direction ; but perhaps he had a patient to see. 

‘ Only to Eltham Green,’ he returned briefly. 

The answer was puzzling. Eltham Green was half a 
mile from the Cedars, and there was only one house there, 
besides a few scattered cottages ; and I knew Uncle 
Geoftrey’s patient, Mr. Anthony Lambert, who lived there, 
had died about a month ago. 

As Allan did not seem disposed to be communicative, I 


ALLAN AND 1 WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN 23 1 

let the matter rest, and held my peace ; and a few minutes’ 
quick walking brought us to the place. 

It was a little common, very wild and tangled with gorse, 
and in summer very picturesque. Some elms bordered the 
road, and there was a large clear-looking pond, and flocks 
of geese would waddle over the common, hissing and 
thrusting out their yellow bills to every passer-by. 

The cottages were pretty and rustic-looking, and had gay 
little gardens in front. They belonged to Mr. Lucas ; and 
Eltham Cottage, as Mr. Lambert's house was called, was 
his propertj^ also. 

Flurry and I had always been very fond of the common, 
where Flossy had often run barking round the pond, after 
a family of yellow ducklings. 

‘ Eltham Cottage is still to let,’ I observed, looking up at 
the board ; ‘ it is such a pretty house.’ 

Allan made no response to that, but bade me enter, as, 
he wanted to look at it. 

It was a long, two-storied cottage, with a verandah all 
round it, and in summer a profusion of flowers — roses and 
clematis, and a splendid passion-flower — twined round the 
pillars and covered the porch. 

The woman who admitted us ushered us into a charming 
little hall, with a painted window and a glass door opening 
on to the lawn. There was a small room on one side of it, 
and on the other the dining-room and drawing-room. The 
last was a very long, pleasant room, with three windows, 
all opening French fashion on to the verandah, and another 
glass door leading into a pretty little conservatory. 

The garden was small, but very tastefully laid out ; but 
there was a southern wall, where peaches and nectarines 
were grown, and beehives stood, and some pretty winding 
walks, which led to snug nooks, where ferns or violets were 
hidden. 

‘ What a sweet place ! ’ I exclaimed, admiringly, at which 
Allan looked exultant ; but he only bade me follow him into 
the upper rooms. 

These were satisfactory in every respect. Some were of 


ESTHER, 


232 

sunny aspect, and looked over the garden and some 
large park-like meadows; the front ones commanded the 
common. 

‘ There is not a bad room in the house,’ said Allan ; 
and then he made me admire the linen-presses and old- 
fashioned cupboards, and the bright red-tiled kitchen look- 
ing out on a laurestinus walk. 

‘ It is a dear house ! ’ I exclaimed, enthusiastically, at 
which Allan looked well-pleased. Then he took me by the 
arm, and drew me to a little window- seat on the upper 
landing — a proceeding that reminded me of the days at 
Combe Manor, when I sat waiting for him, and looking 
down on the lilies. 

‘ I am glad you think so,’ he said, solemnly ; ‘ for I 
wanted to ask your advice about an idc^a of mine ; it came 
into my head this morning when we were all talking and 
planning, that this house would be just the thing for 
mother.’ 

‘ Allan ! ’ I exclaimed, ‘ you really do not mean to 
propose that we should leave Uncle Geoffrey ? ’ 

‘ No, of course not,’ with a touch of impatience, for he 
was always a little hasty if people did not grasp his mean- 
ing at once, ‘ but, you see, houses in Milnthorpe are scarce, 
and we are rather too tight a fit at present. Besides, it is 
not quiet enough for Carrie : the noise of the carts and gigs 
on Monday morning jars her terribly. What I propose is, 
that you should all settle down here in this pretty countrified 
little nook, and take Uncle Geoff and Deb with you, and 
leave Martha and me to represent the Camerons in the old 
house in the High-street.’ 

‘But, Allan — ’ I commenced, dubiously, for I did not 
like the idea of leaving him behind ; but he interrupted me, 
and put his views more forcibly before me. 

Carrie wanted quiet and country air, and so did Dot ; 
and the conservatory and garden would be such a delight 
to mother. Uncle Geoffrey would be dull without us, and 
there was a nice little room that could be fitted u]3 for him 
and Jumbles ; he would drive into his work every morning 


ALLAN AND 2 WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN 233 

and he — Allan — could walk out and see us on two or three 
evenings in the w^eek. 

‘ I must be there, of course, to look after the practice. 
I am afraid I am cut out for an old bachelor, Esther, like 
Uncle Geoflf, for I do not feel at all dismal at the thought 
of having a house to myself/ finished Allan with his boyish 
laugh. 



W HAT a clever head Allan had ! I always said ther6 
was more in that boy than half a dozen Freds ! 
To think of such a scheme coming into his mind, 
and driving us all nearly wild wuth excitement ! 

Allan’s strong will bore down all opposition. Mother’s 
feeble remonstrances, which came from a sheer terror of 
change ; even Uncle Geoffrey’s sturdy refusal to budge an 
inch out of the old house where he had lived so long, 
did not weigh a straw against Allan’s solid reasoning. 

It took a vast amount of talking, though, before our 
young autocrat achieved his final victory, and went off 
flushed and eager to settle preliminaries with Mr. Lucas. 
It was all sealed, signed, and delivered before he came 
back. 

The pretty cottage at Eltham was to be ours, furnished 
with Aunt Podgill’s good old-fashioned furniture, and in 
the early days of April we were to accomplish our second 
flitting. 

The only remaining difficulty was about Jack ; but this 
Uncle Geoffrey solved for us. The gig Avould bring him 
into Milnthorpe every morning, and he could easily drive 
Jack to her school, and the walk back 'svould be good for 
her. In dark, wintry weather she could return with him, 


TOLD IN THE SUNSET. 235 

or, if occasion required it, she might be a weekly 
boarder. 

Mr. Lucas came back with Allan, and formally congratu- 
lated mother on her good fortune. 

I do not know if it were my fancy, but he seemed a 
little grave and constrained in his manners that evening, 
and scarcely addressed me at all until the close of his 
visit. 

‘ Under the circumstances I am afraid Flurry will have 
to lose her governess,* he said, not looking at me, however, 
but at mother; and though I opened my lips to reply, 
mother answered for me. 

‘ Well, yes, I am afraid so. Carrie depends so much on 
her sister.’ 

‘ Of course, of course,’ he returned, hastily ; and actually 
he never said another word, but got up and said good-bye 
to mother. 

But I could not let him go without a word after all his 
kindness to me; so, as Allan had gone out, I followed 
him out into the hall, though he tried to wave me 
back. 

‘ It is cold ; I shall not open the hall door while you 
stand there. Miss Esther.’ 

‘ Oh, I do not mind the cold one bit,’ I returned, 
nervously ; ‘ but I want to speak to you a moment, Mr. 
Lucas. Will you give Euth my love, and tell her I will 
come and talk to her to-morrow, and — and I am so sorry 
to part with Flurry.’ 

‘ You are not more sorry than she will be,’ he returned, 
but not in his old natural manner ; and then he begged me 
so decidedly to go back into the warm room that I dared 
not venture on another word. 

It was very unsatisfactory; something must have put 
him out, I thought, and I went back to mother feeling 
chilled and uncomfortable. Oh, dear ! how dependent we 
are for comfort on the words and manners of those 
around us. 

I went to the Cedars the following afternoon, and had 


ESTHER, 


236 

a long comfortable talk with Euth. She even laid aside 
her usual quiet undemonstrativeness, and petted and made 
much of me, though she laughed a little at what she called 
my solemn face. 

‘ Confess now, Esther, you are not a bit pleased about 
all this money ! * 

‘ Oh, indeed I am,’ I returned, quite shocked at this. 
‘ I am so delighted for mother and Dot and Carrie.’ 

‘ But not for yourself,’ she persisted. 

There was no deceiving Euth, so I made a full confession, 
and stammered out, in great confusion, that I did not like 
losing her and Flurry ; that it was wrong and selfish, when 
Carrie wanted me so; but I knew that even at Eltham 
I should miss the Cedars. 

She seemed touched at that. ‘You are a faithful soul, 
Esther ; you never forget a kindness, and you cannot bear 
even a slight separation from those you love. We have 
spoilt you, I am afraid.’ 

‘Yes, indeed,’ I returned, rather sadly, ‘you have been 
far too good to me.* 

‘ That is a matter of opinion. Well, what am I to say 
to comfort you, when you find fault with even your 
good luck ? Will it make you any better to know we shall 
all miss you dreadfully ? Even Giles owned as much ; and 
as for Flurry, we had quite a piece of work with her.’ 

‘Mr. Lucas never even said he was sorry,’ I returned, in 
a piqued voice. It was true I was quite spoilt, for I even 
felt aggrieved that he did not join us in the drawing-room, 
and yet I knew he was in the house. 

‘ Oh, you do not know Giles,’ she answered, brightly ; ‘ he 
is one of the unselfish ones, he would not have damped 
what he thought your happiness for the world. You see, 
Esther, no one in their senses would ever believe that j^ou 
were really sorry at your stroke of good fortune ; it is 
only I who know you, my dear, that can understand how 
that is.’ 

Did she understand ? Did I really understand myself ? 
Anyhow, I felt horribly abashed while she was speaking. 


TOLD IN THE SUNSET 


237 

I felt I had been conducting myself in an unfledged girlish 
fashion, and that Euth, with her staid common sense, was 
reproving me. 

I determined then ' and there that no more foolish 
expression of regret should cross my lips; that I would 
keep all such nonsense to myself ; so when Flurry ran in 
very tearful and desponding, I took Euth’s cue, and talked 
to her as cheerfully as possible, giving her such vivid 
descriptions of the cottage and the garden, and the dear 
little honeysuckle arbour where Dot and she could have 
tea, that she speedily forgot all her regrets in delicious 
anticipations. 

‘ Yes, indeed,’ observed Euth, as she benevolently con- 
templated us, ‘ I expect Flurry and I will be such constant 
visitors that your mother will complain that there is no 
end of those tiresome Lucases. Eun along. Flurry, and 
see if your father means to come in and have some tea. 
Tell him Esther is here.’ 

Flurry was a long time gone, and then she brought back 
a message that her father was too busy, and she might 
bring him a cup there, and that she was to give his kind 
regards to Miss Cameron, and that was all. 

I went home shortly after that, and found mother and 
Carrie deep in discussion about carpets and curtains. They 
both said I looked tired and cold, and that Euth had kept 
me too long. 

‘ I think I am getting jealous of Euth,’ Carrie said, with 
a gentle smile. 

And somehow the remark did not please me ; not that 
Carrie really meant it, though ; but it did strike me some- 
times that both mother and she thought that Euth rather 
monopolised me. 

My visits to the Cedars became very rare after this, for 
we were soon engrossed with the bustle of moving. For 
more than six weeks I trudged about daily between our 
house and Eltham Cottage. There were carpets to be 
fitted, and the furniture to be adapted to each room, and 
wLen that was done Allan and I worked hard in the 


ESTHER, 


238 

conservatory; and here Euth often joined us, bringing 
with her a rare fern or plant from the well-stocked green- 
houses at the Cedars. She used to sit and watch us at 
our labours, and say sometimes how much she wished 
she could help us, and sometimes she spent an hour or 
two with Carrie to make up for my absence. 

I rather revelled in my hard work, and grew happier 
every day, and the cottage did look so pretty when we had 
finished. 

Euth was with me all the last afternoon. We lighted 
fires in all the rooms, and they looked so cosy. The table 
in the dining-room was spread with Aunt PodgilTs best 
damask linen and her masive old-fashioned silver ; and 
Deborah was actually baking her famous griddle cakes, to 
the admiration of our new help, Dorcas, before the first 
fly, with mother and Carrie and Dot, drove up to the door. 
I shall never forget mother’s pleased look as she stood in 
the little hall, and Carrie’s warm kiss as I welcomed 
them. 

‘ How beautiful it all looks ! ’ she exclaimed ; ‘ how 
home-like and bright and cosy ; you have managed so well, 
Esther ! ’ 

‘Esther always manages well,’ observed d^ar mother, 
proudly. The extent to which she believed in me and my 
resources w^as astonishing. She followed me all over the 
house, praising everything. I was glad Euth heard her, 
and knew that I had done my best for them all. Allan 
accompanied the others, and we had quite a merry 
evening. 

Euth stayed to tea. ‘ She was really becoming one of 
us ! ’ as mother observed ; and Allan took her home. We 
all crowded into the porch to see them off ; even Carrie, 
who was getting quite nimble on her crutches. It was a 
warm April night ; the little common was flooded with 
moonlight ; the spring flowers were sleeping in the white 
rays, and the limes glistened like silver. Uncle Geoffrey 
and I 'walked with them to the gate, while Euth got into 
her pony carriage. 


TOLD IN THE SUNSET. 


239 

I did not like saying good-night to Allan ; it seemed so 
strange for him to be going back to the old house alone ; 
but he burst into one of his ringing laughs when I told 
him so. 

‘ Why, I like it,’ he said, cheerily ; ‘ it is good fun being 
monarch of all I survey. Didn’t I tell you I was cut out 
for an old bachelor ? you must come and make tea for me 
sometimes, when I can’t get out here.’ And then, in a 
more serious voice, he added, ‘ It does put one into such 
good spirits to see mother and you girls safe in this pretty 
nest.’ 

I had never been idle ; but now the day never seemed 
long enough for my numerous occupations, and yet they 
were summer days, too. 

The early rising was now an enjoyment to me. I used 
to work in the garden or conservatory before breakfast, 
and how delicious those hours were when the birds and I 
had it all to ourselves ; and I hardly know which sang the 
loudest, for I was very happy, very happy indeed, without 
knowing why. I think this unreasoning and unreasonable 
happiness is an attribute of youth. 

I had got over my foolish disappointment about the 
Cedars. Euth kept her word nobly, and she and Flurry 
came perpetually to the cottage. Sometimes I spent an 
afternoon or evening at the Cedars, and then I always saw 
Mr. Lucas, and he was most friendly and pleasant. He 
used to talk of coming down one afternoon to see how I was 
■getting on with my fernery, but it was a long time before 
he kept his promise. 

The brief cloud, or whatever it was, had vanished, and 
he was his own genial self. Flurry had not another gover- 
ness, but Euth gave her lessons sometimes, and on her bad 
days her father heard them. It was rather desultory teach- 
ing, and I used to shake my head rather solemnly when I 
heard of it ; but Euth always said that Giles wished it to 
be so for the present. The child was not strong, and was 
growing fast, and it would not hurt her to run wild a 
little. 


ESTHER. 


240 

When breakfast was over, Dot and I worked hard ; and 
in the afternoon I generally read to Carrie ; she was far less 
of an invalid now, and used to busy herself with work for 
the poor while she lay on her couch and listened. She 
used to get mother to help her sometimes, and then Carrie 
would look so happy as she planned how this garment was 
to be for old Nanny Stables, and the next for her little 
grandson Jemmy. With returning strength came the old 
unselfish desire to benefit others. It put her quite into 
spirits one day when Mrs. Smedley asked her to cover 
some books for the Sunday-school. 

‘ How good of her to think of it ; it is just work that I 
can do ! ’ she said, gratefully ; and for the rest of the day 
she looked like the old Carrie again. 

Allan came to see us nearly every evening. Oh, those 
delicious summer evenings ! how vividly even now they 
seem to rise before me, though many, many happy years 
lie between me and them. 

Somehow it had grown a sort of habit with us to spend 
them on the common. Mother loved the sweet, fresh air, 
and would sit for hours amongst the furze bushes and 
gorse, knitting placidly, and watching the children at their 
play, or the cottagers at work in their gardens ; and Uncle 
Geoffrey, in his old felt hat, would sit beside her, reading 
the papers. 

Allan used to tempt Carrie for a stroll over the common ; 
and when she was tired he and Jack and I would saunter 
down some of the long country lanes, sometimes hunting 
for glow-worms in the hedges, sometimes extending our 
walk until the moon shone over the silent fields, and the 
night became' sweet and dewy, and the hedgerows glim- 
mered strangely in the uncertain light. 

How cosy our little drawing-room always looked on our 
return ! The lamp would be lighted on the round table, 
and the warm perfume of flowers seemed to steep the air 
with fragrance ; sometimes the glass door would lie open, 
and grey moths come circling round the light, and outside 
lay the lawn, silvered with moonlight. Allan used to leave 


TOLD IN THE SUNSET 24 1 

ns regretfully to go back to the old house at Milnthorpe ; 
he said we were such a snug party. 

When Carrie began to visit the cottages and to gather 
the children round her couch on Sunday afternoons, I 
knew she was her old self again. Day by day her sweet 
face grew calmer and happier ; her eyes lost their sad 
wistful expression, and a little colour touched her wan 
cheeks. 

Truly she often suffered much, and her lameness was a 
sad hindrance in the way of her usefulness ; but her hands 
were always busy, and on her well days she spent hours in 
the cottages reading to two or three old people, or instruct- 
ing the younger ones. 

It was touching to see her so thankful for the fragments 
of work that still fell to her share, content to take the 
humblest task, if she only might give but ‘ a cup of cold 
w^ater to one of these little ones ; ’ and sometimes I thought 
how dearly the Good Shepherd must love the gentle 
creature who was treading her painful life-path so lovingly 
and patiently. 

I often wondered why Mr. Lucas never kept his promise 
of coming to see us ; but one evening when Jack and Allan 
and I returned from our stroll we found him sitting talking 
to mother and Uncle Geoffrey. 

I was so surprised at his sudden appearance that I 
dropped some of the flowers I held in my hand, and he 
laughed as he helped me to pick them up. 

‘I hope I haven’t startled you,’ he said, as we shook 
hands. 

‘ No — that is — I never expected to see you here this even- 
ing,’ I returned, rather awkwardly. 

‘ Take off your hat, Esther,’ said mother, in an odd 
tone ; and I thought she looked flushed and nervous, just 
as she does when she wants to cry. ‘ Mr. Lucas has pro- 
mised to have supper with us, and, my dear, he wants you 
to show him the conservatory and the fernery.’ 

It was still daylight, though the sun was setting fast ; 
we had returned earlier than usual, for Allan had to go 

R 


ESTHER. 


242 

back to Milnthorpe, and he bade us good-night hastily as I 
prepared to obey mother. 

Jack followed us, but mother called her back, and asked 
her to go to one of the cottages and fetch Carrie home. 
Such a glorious sunset met our eyes as we stepped out on 
the lawn ; the clouds were a marvel of rose and violet and 
golden splendour ; the windows of the cottage were glitter- 
ing with the reflected beams, and a delicious scent of lilies 
was in the air. 

Mr. Lucas seemed in one of his grave moods, for he said 
very little until we reached the winding walk where the 
ferns were, and then 

I am not going to repeat what he said ; such words are 
too sacred ; but it came upon me with the shock of a 
thunderbolt what he had been telling mother, and what he 
was trying to make me understand, for I w’as so stupid that 
I could not think what he meant by asking me to go back 
to the Cedars, and when he saw that, he spoke more 
plainly. 

‘ You must come back, Esther ; we cannot do without you 
any longer,’ he continued very gently, ‘not as Flurry’s 
governess, but as her mother, and as my wife.’ 

He was very patient with me, when he saw how the 
suddenness and the wonder of it all upset me, that a man 
like Mr. Lucas could love me, and be so clever and superior 
and good. How could such a marvellous thing have 
happened ? 

And mother knew it, and Uncle Geoffrey, for Mr. Lucas 
had taken advantage of my absence to speak to them both, 
and they had given him leave to say this to me. Well, 
there could be no uncertainty in my answer. I already 
reverenced and venerated him above other men, and the 
rest came easy, and before we returned to the house the 
first strangeness and timidity had passed ; I actually asked 
him — summoning up all my courage, however — how it was 
he could think of me, a mere girl without beauty, or clever- 
ness, or any of the ordinary attractions of girlhood. 

* I don’t know,’ he answered, and I knew by his voice he 



“You must come back, Esther/^ 


Page 242 


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TOLD IN THE SUNSET. 245 

was smiling ; ‘ it has been coming on a long time ; when 
people know you they don^t think you plain, Esther, and to 
me you can never be so. I first knew what I really felt 
when I came out of the room that dreadful night, and saw 
you standing with drenched hair and white face, with Dot 
in your arms and my precious Flurry clinging to your 
dress ; when I saw you tottering and caught you. I vowed 
then that you, and none other, should replace Flurry’s 
dead mother;* and when he had said this I asked no 
more. 



‘ Oh, my darling, if only your poor father could know of 
this,’ she whispered ; and when Uncle Geoffrey’s turn came 
he seemed almost as touched. 

‘ What on earth are we to do without you, child ? ’ he 
grumbled, wiping his eye-glasses. ‘ There, go along with 
you. If ever a girl deserved a good husband and got it, 
you are the one.’ 

‘Yes, indeed,’ sighed mother; ‘Esther is everyone’s 
righjk hand.’ 

But Mr. Lucas sat down by her side and said something 
so kind and comforting that she soon grew more cheerful, . 
and I went up to Carrie. 

She was resting a little in the twilight, and I knelt down 
beside her and hid my face on her shoulder, and now the 
happy tears would find a vent. 

‘ Why, Esther — why, my dear, what does this mean ? ’ 
she asked, anxiously ; and then, with a sudden conviction 
dawning on her, she continued in an excited voice — ‘ Mr. 
Lucas is here ; he has been saying something, he — he — ’ 
And then I managed somehow to stammer out the truth. 

‘ I am so happy ; but you will miss me so dreadfully, 
darling, and so will Dot and mother.’ 


RINGING THE CHANGES. 


247 

But Carrie took me in her arms and silenced me at 
once. 

‘ We are all happy in your happiness ; you shall not shed 
a tear for us — not one. Do you know how glad I am, how 
proud I feel that he should think so highly of my precious 
sister ! Where is he ? Let me get up, that I may welcome 
my new brother. So you and your dear Kuth will be 
sisters,’ she said, rallying me in her gentle way, and that 
made me smile and blush. 

How good Carrie was that evening! Mr. Lucas was 
quite touched by her few sweet words of welcome, and 
mother looked quite relieved at the sight of her bright 
face. 

‘What message am I to take to Euth?’ he said to 
me, as we stood together in the porch later on that 
evening. 

‘ Give her my dear love, and ask her to come to me,’ was 
my half- whispered answer ; and as I went to bed that night 
Carrie’s words rang in my ears like sweetest music — ‘You 
and Euth will be sisters.’ 

But it was Allan who was my first visitor. Directly 
Uncle Geoffrey told him what had happened, he put on his 
broad-brimmed straw hat, and leaving Uncle Geoffrey to 
attend to the patients, came striding down to the cottage. 

He had burst open the door and caught hold of me before 
I could put down Dot’s lesson-book. The little fellow looked 
up amazed at his radiant face. 

‘ What a brick you are, Esther, and what a brick he is ! ’ 
fairly hugging me. ‘ I never was so pleased at anything in 
my life. Hurrah for Mr. Lucas at the Cedars ! ’ and Allan 
threw up his hat and caught it. No wonder Dot looked 
mystified. 

‘ What does he mean ? ’ asked the poor child ; ‘ and how 
hot you look, Essie.’ 

‘ Listen to me, Frankie,’ returned Allan, sitting down by 
Dot. ‘ The j oiliest thing in the world has happened. 
Esther has made her fortune ; she is going to have a good 
husband and a rich husband, and one we shall all like, Dot ; 


ESTHER. 


248 

and not only that, but she will have a dear little daughter 
as well.’ 

Dot fairly gasped as he looked at us both, and then he 
asked me rather piteously if Allan was telling him a funny 
story to make him laugh. 

‘ Oh, no, dear Dot,’ I whispered, bringing my face on a 
level with his, and bravely disregarding Allan’s quizzical 
looks. ‘ It is quite true, darling, although it is so strange 
I hardly know how to believe it myself* But one day I am 
going to the Cedars.’ 

‘ To live there ? to leave us ? Oh, Essie ! * And Dot’s 
eyes grew large and mournful. 

‘ Mr. Lucas wants me, and Flurry. Oh, my darling, for- 
give me ! ’ as a big tear rolled down his cheek. ‘ I shall 
always love you. Dot ; you will not lose me. Oh, dear ! oh, 
dear ! what am I to say to him, Allan ? ’ 

‘ You will not love me the most any longer, Essie.’ 

And as I took him in my arms and kissed him passion- 
ately his cheek felt wet against mine. 

‘ Oh, Frankie, fie, for shame ! ’ interrupted Allan. ‘ You 
have made Esther cry, and just now, when she was so happy. 
I did not think you were so selfish.’ 

But I would not let him go on. I knew where the pain 
lay. Dot was jealous for the first time in his life, and for a 
long time he refused to be comforted. 

Allan left us together by-and-by, and I tock my darling on 
my lap and listened to his childish exposition of grief and 
the recital of grievances that were very real to him. How 
Flurry would always have me, and he (Dot) would be dull 
and left out in the cold. How Mr. Lucas was a very nice 
man ; but he was so old, and he did not want him for a 
brother — ir^deed, he did not want a brother at all. He had 
Allan and that big, stupid Fred — for Dot, for once in his 
sweet life, was decidedly cross. And then he confided to 
me that he loved Carrie very much, but not half so well as 
he loved me. He wished Mr. Lucas had taken her instead. 
She was very nice and very pretty, and all that, and why 
hadn’t he? 


RINGING THE CHANGES. 


249 


But here I thought it high time to interpose. 

‘ But, Dot, I should not have liked that at all. And I am 
so happy,* I whispered. 

‘ You love him — that old, old man, Essie ! ’ in unmitigated 
astonishment. 

‘ Pie is not old at all,* I returned, indignantly ; for, in 
spite of his iron-grey hair, Mr. Lucas could hardly be forty, 
and was still a young-looking man. 

Dot gave a wicked little smile at that. In his present 
mood he rather enjoyed vexihg me. 

I got him in a better frame of mind by-and-by. I hardly 
knew what I said, but I kissed him, and cried, and told him 
how unhappy he made me, and how pleased mother and 
Carrie and Jack were ; and after that he left off saying sharp 
things, and treated me to a series of penitent hugs, and 
promised that he would not be cross with ‘ my little girl * 
Flurry ; for after that day he always persisted in calling her 
‘my little girl.* 

Dot had been a little exhausting, so I went down to the 
bench near the fernery to cool myself and secure a little 
quiet, and there Euth found me. I saw her coming over 
the grass with outstretched hands, and such a smile on her 
dear face ; and though I was so shy that I could scarcely 
greet her, I could feel by the way she kissed me how glad — 
how very glad — she was. 

‘ Dear Esther ! My dear new sister ! ’ she whispered. 

‘ Oh, Euth, is it true ? * I returned, blushing. ‘ Last night 
it seemed real, but this morning I feel half in a dream. It 
will do me good to know that you are really pleased about 
this.* 

‘ Can you doubt it, dearest ? * she returned, reproach- 
fully. ‘ Have you not grown so deep into our hearts that 
we cannot tear you out if you would ? You are necessary 
to all of us, Esther — to Flurry and me; and as to 
Giles * 

But I put my hand on her lips to stop her. It was 
sweet, and yet it troubled me, to know what he thought of 
me ; but Euth would not be stopped. 


ESTHER, 


250 

‘ He came home so proud and happy last night. She 
has accepted me, Euth,*’ he said, in such a pleased voice, 
and then he told me what you had said about being so 
young and inexperienced.’ 

‘ That was my great fear,’ I replied, in a low voice. 

‘Your youth is a fault that will mend,’ she answered, 
quaintly. ‘I wish I could remember Giles’s rhapsody — 
“ So true, so unselfish, so womanly and devoted.” By-the- 
bye, I have forgotten to give you his message ; he will be 
here this afternoon with Flurry.’ 

We talked more soberly after a time, and the sweet 
golden forenoon wore away, as we sat there looking at the 
cool green fronds of the ferns before us, with mother’s 
bees humming about the roses. There was summer over 
the land and summer in my heart, and above us the blue 
open sky of God’s Providence enfolding us. 

I was tying up the rose in the porch, when I saw Mr. 
Lucas and Flurry crossing the common. Dot, who was 
helping me, grew a little solemn all at once. 

‘ Here is your little girl, Essie,’ he said, very gravely. 
My dear boy, how could he ? 

‘ Oh, Esther,’ she panted, for she had broken away from 
her father at the sight of us, ‘ auntie has told me you are 
going to be my own mamma, in place of poor mamma 
who died. I shall call you mammy. I was lying awake 
ever so long last night, thinking which name it should 
be, and I like that best.* 

‘ You shall call me what you like, dear Flurry ; but I am 
only Esther now.’ 

‘ Yes, but you will be mammy soon,’ she returned, nodding 
her little head sagely. ‘ Mamma was such a grand lady ; so 

big and handsome, she was older, too ’ But here Mr. 

Lucas interrupted us. 

Dot received him in a very dignified manner. 

‘ How do you do ? ’ he said, putting out his mite of a 
hand, in such an old-fashioned way. I could see Mr. 
Lucas’s lip curl with secret amusement, and then he took 
the little fellow in his arms. 


RINGING THE CHANGES. 


251 

* What is the matter, Dot ? You do not seem half 
pleased to see me this afternoon. I suppose you are very 
angry with me for proposing to take Esther away. Don’t 
you want an old fellow like me to be your brother ? ’ 

Dot’s face grew scarlet. Truth and politeness were sadly 
at variance, but at last he effected a compromise. 

‘Esther says you are not so very old, after all,’ he 
stammered. 

‘ Oh, Esther says that, does she ? ’ in an amused voice. 

‘ Father is not old at all,’ interrupted Flurry, in a cross 
voice. 

‘ Never mind, so that Esther is satisfied,’ returned ]\[r. 
Lucas, soothingly ; ‘ but as Flurry is going to be her little 
girl, you must be my little boy, eh. Dot ? ’ 

‘I am Esther’s and Allan’s little boy,’ replied Dot, 
rather ungraciously. We had spoiled our crippled darling 
amongst us, and had only ourselves to blame for his little 
tempers. 

‘ Yes, but you must be mine too,’ he replied, still more 
gently ; and then he whispered something into his ear. I 
saw Dot’s sulky countenance relax, and a little smile 
chase away his frown, and in another moment his arms 
closed round Mr. Lucas’s neck; the reconciliation was 
complete. 

What a happy autumn that was ! But November found 
us strangely busy, for we were preparing for my wedding. 
We were married on New Year’s Day, when the snow lay 
on the ground. A quiet, a very quiet wedding, it was. I 
was married in my travelling dress, at Giles’s expressed 
wish, and we drove straight from the church door to the 
station, for we were to spend the first few weeks in 
Devonshire. 

Dear Jessie, my old schoolmate, was my only bridesmaid ; 
for Carrie would not hear of fulfilling that office on her 
crutches. 

I have a vague idea that the church was very full, and I 
have a misty recollection of Dot, with very round eyes, 
standing near Allan ; but I can recall no more, for my 


ESTHER, 


252 

thoughts were engaged by the solemn vows we were 
exchanging. 

Three weeks afterwards, and we were settled in the house 
that was to be mine for so many happy years ; but never 
shall I forget the sweetness of that home-coming. 

Dear Euth welcomed us on the threshold, and then took 
my hand and Giles’s, and led us into the bright, firelit room. 
Two little faces peeped at us from the curtained recess, and 
these were Dot and Flurry. I had them both in my arms 
at once. I would not let Giles have Flurry at first till he 
threatened to take Dot. 

Oh, how happy we were ! Euth made tea for us, and I 
sat in my favourite low chair. The children scrambled up on 
Giles’s knee, and he peeped at me between their eager faces ; 
but I was quite content io let them engross him ; it was 
pleasure enough for me to watch them. 

‘ Why how grand you look, Essie ! ’ Dot said at last. 
* Your fingers are twinkling with grer n and white stones, 
and your dress rustles like old Mrs. Jameson’s.’ 

‘ “ And she shall walk in silk attire, 

And siller have to spare,”* 

sang Giles. ‘ Never mind Dot, Esther. Your brave attire 
suits you well.’ 

‘ She looks very nice,’ put in Euth, softly ; ‘ but she is 
our dear old Esther all the same.’ 

‘ Nonsense, auntie,’ exclaimed Flurry, in her sharp little 
voice. ‘ She is not Esther any longer ; she is my dear new 
mammy.’ At which we all laughed. 

I was always mammy to Flurry, though my other 
darlings called me inother ; for before many years were 
over I had Dots of my own — dear little fat Winnie, her 
brother Harold, and baby Geoffrey — to whom Euth was 
always ‘ auntie,’ or ‘ little auntie,’ as my mischievous 
Harold called her. 

As the years passed on there were changes at Eltham 
Cottage — some of them sad and some of them pleasant, 
after the bitter-sweet fashions of life. 


RINGING THE CHANGES. 


253 

The first great sorrow of my married life was dear 
mother’s death. She failed a little after Harold’s birth, 
and, to my great grief, she never saw my baby boy, 
Geoffrey. A few months before he came into the world 
she sank peacefully and painlessly to rest. 

Fred came up to the funeral, and stayed with Allan ; 
he had grown a long beard, and looked very manly and 
handsome. His pictures were never accepted by the 
hanging committee; and after a few years he grew tired 
of his desultory work, and thankfully accepted a post 
Giles had procured for him in the Colonies. After this 
he found his place in life, and settled down, and when 
we last heard from him he was on the eve of marriage 
with a Canadian girl. He sent us her photograph, and 
both Giles and I approved of the open, candid face and 
smiling brown eyes, and thought Fred had done well for 
himself. 

Allan was a long time making his choice; but at last 
it fell on our new vicar’s daughter, Emily Sherbourne ; 
for, three years after our marriage, Mr. Smedley had 
been attacked by sudden illness, which carried him off. 

How pleased I was when Allan told me that he and 
Emmie had settled it between them. She was such a 
sweet girl ; not pretty, but with a loveable, gentle face, 
and she had such simple kindly manners, so different 
from the girls of the present day, who hide their good 
womanly hearts under such abrupt loud ways. Emily, 
or, as we always called her, Emmie, was not clever, but 
she suited Allan to a nicety. She was wonderfully 
amiable, and bore his little irritabilities with the most 
placid good humour ; nothing put her out, and she 
believed in him with a credulity that amused Allan 
largely; but he was very proud of her, and they made 
the happiest couple in the world, with the exception of 
Giles and me. 

Carrie lost her lameness, after all; but not until she 
had been up to London and had undergone skilful treat- 
ment under the care of a very skilful physician. I shall 


ESTHER. 


254 

always remember Dot’s joy when she took her first walk 
without her crutches. She came down to the Cedars 
with Jack, now a fine well-grown girl, and I shall never 
forget her sweet April face of smiles and tears. 

‘ How good God has been to me, Essie, ^ she whispered, 
as we sat together under the cedar tree, while Jack ran 
off for her usual romp with Winnie and Harold. ‘ I have 
just had to lie quiet until I learnt the lesson He wanted 
me to Jearn years ago, and now He is making me so 
happy, and giving me back my work.* 

It was just so; Carrie had come out of her painful 
ordeal strengthened and disciplined, and fit to teach 
others. No longer the weak, Kearny girl who stretched 
out over-eager hands for the work God in His wise 
providence withheld from her, she had emerged from her 
enforced retirement a bright helpful woman, who carried 
about her a secret fund of joy, of which no earthly circum- 
stances could deprive her. 

‘My sweet sister Charity,’ Allan called her, and the 
poor of Milnthorpe had reason to bless her ; for early and 
late she laboured among them, tending the sick and 
dying, working often at Allan’s side among his poorer 
patients. 

At home she was Uncle Geoffrey’s comfort, and a most 
sweet companion for him and Jack. As for Dot, he lived 
almost entirely at the Cedars. Giles had grown very fond 
of him, and we neither of us could spare him. They say 
he will always be a cripple ; but what does that matter, 
when he spends day after day so happily in the little 
room Giles has fitted up for him ? 

We believe, after all. Dot will be an artist. He has 
taken a lifelike portrait of my Harold that has delighted 
Giles, and he vows that he shall have all the advantages 
he can give him; for Giles is very rich — so rich that I 
almost tremble at the thought of our responsibilities ; only 
I know my husband is a faithful steward, and makes a 
good use of his talents. Carrie is his almoner, and some- 
times I work with her. There are some almshouses which 


RINGING THE CHANGES, 


255 

Giles is building in which I take great interest, and where 
I mean to visit the old people, with Winnie trotting by 
my side. 

Just now Giles came in heated and tired. ‘What, little 
wife, still scribbling ? ’ 

‘Wait a moment, dear Giles,’ I replied. ‘ I have just 
finished.’ 

And so I have — the few scanty recollections of Esther 
Cameron’s life. 


THE END. 




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J. B. LIPPINOOTT COMPANY, PubUshers, 

715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia, 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 

ANIMALS, THEIR HOMES# THEIR HABITS. 

A Book for Young People. By Uncle Warren. With 24 full- 
page Illustrations. Small folio. Cloth, full gilt, and gilt 
edges. $2.00. 

This volume, like Uncle Warren’s about Birds, is especially written for the 
young, and has a fund of information which will be highly enjoyed by them. 


BIRDS, THEIR HOMES AND THEIR HAUNTS. 

A Book for Young People. By Uncle Warren. With 24 full- 
page Illustrations. Small folio. Cloth, full gilt, and gilt 
edges. $2.00. 

This work, carefully prepared for the young, contains an account of up- 
ward of a hundred of the most popular birds. It is crowded with instruction 
and entertainment, and well adapted to the taste of the children of the present 
generation. 

REID BESAUTY. 

A Story of the Pawnee Trail. By William O. Stoddard. 
With Frontispiece. l2mo. Extra cloth. $1.2$. 

A thrilling tale of pioneer life in the far West, written in Mr. Stoddard’s 
happiest vein. It is full of adventure and stirring incidents, and graphically 
depicting the dangers surrounding first settlers in that region. 


CHARLET LUCKEN AT SCHOOL AND COLLEOE 

By the Rev. H. C. Adams, M.A., author of “ For James or 
George,” “ School-Boy Honor,” etc. With Illustrations by 
J. Finnemore. i2mo. Extra cloth. ; 5 >i. 50 . 


THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN. 

By George Macdonald. With Thirty Illustrations. i2mo. 
Extra cloth. $1,2$, 

BY THE SAME AUTHOR : 

THE PRINCESS AND CURDIE. 

A New Juvenile. Companion volume to “ The Princess and the 
Goblin.” With numerous full-page Illustrationst lamo. Extra 
cloth. ^1.25. 

RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

With numerous Illustrations. lanlo. Extra cloth. $1.25. 

AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND. 

With 76 Illustrations. lamo. Extra cloth. ^1.25. 

THE FOUR VOLUMES IN A BOX, $5.00. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


NEW BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 

THE BOY WANDERER; 

Or. No Relations. From the French of Hector Malot. 
With Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth, gilt. $2.00. 

This entertaining story gained Mr. Malot the Monthyon Prize of Virtue. 
It was translated a number of years ago, and appeared under the second title, 
which failed to give a clear idea of the book. The work is not only suitable 
foi general reading, but is specially adapted to the taste of young people, and 
its attractiveness in this respect is much increased by the introduction of nun- 
erous engravings from the original French edition. 

An extremely fascinating story, written with unflagging force, and is full 
of genuine pathos as of graceful and delicate descriptions. . . . This novel 

fully deserves the honor that has been done it." — Blackwood's Magazine. 


ARMINIUS YAMBERY; 

His Life and Adventures. Written by Himself. With Por- 
trait and many Illustrations. One vol. Large i2mo. Cloth,, 
gilt. $1.50. 

This work contains a personal narrative of travel and adventures in Asia and 
Europe, and is a book that will be read by all lovers of travel and adventures. 

" A most fascinating work, full of interesting and curious experiences." — 
Contemporary Review. 

" Has all the fascination of a lively romance." — Daily Telegraph. 


OUR YOUNG FOLKS’ ENCYOLOPJE- 
DIA OF TRAVEL. 

A Book of Travel and Adventure. Consisting of OuR Young 
Folks Abroad” and “Our Young Folks in Africa” 
combined in one volume. The Adventures of a Party of 
young Americans in Europe, Algeria, and in South Central 
Africa. By James D. McCabe. Illustrated with over 500 
Engravings. Imperial 8vo. Extra cloth. $2.^0. 

" This book is accurate, readable, and vivacious, and at once amusing and 
Instructive. The illustrations are numerous and reliable, and add much to the 
value of the work." — Boston Courier. 

" By a popular writer, who tells an interesting story of an interesting land. 
Such a book as young folks will understand and older folks enjoy." — Wheeling 
Intelligencer. » 

BOYS’ STORIES. 

By Ascoot R. Hope. With Illustrations. i2mo. Cloth. 

gi.So. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


NEW BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 


YOUBG FOLKS’ WHYS AND WHEREFOEKS. 

By Uncle Lawrence. Profusely Illustrated. Royal 8vo. 

Illuminated Boards. $1.25. 

* Whys and Wherefores* presents on its very cover an inquiring^faced 
Cittle girl transferred in the very act of asking Why. She wants to know Why 
it snows; Why a man couldn't be sent by telegraph; Why it isn’t always 
winter; Why an engine can go all by itself; and a thousand questions of this 
kind that her genial grandpapa delights in answering. The questions are 
suggested very naturally by the daily incidents of the little girl's life, and her 
grandfather gives her the craved-for information in a pleasant, simple manner 
that is as easily understood as it is highly entertaining. In this pretty way 
a deal of useful and valuable knowledge is conveyed .** — New York Herald, 


YOUNa FOLKS’ QUERIES. 

A Story. By Uncle Lawrence. Cabinet 4to. Fully Illus- 
trated. Uniform with “ Young Folks^ Ideas’^ and “ Young 
Folks^ Whys and Wherefores.” Royal 8vo. Illuminated 
Boards. ^1.25. 

** This is a handsomely-bound book of over two hundred pages, containing 
over eighty bright and suggestive illustrations. It contains thirty-one chapters 
of instructive information upon topics which are the subjects of many inquiries 
by observant boys and girls. A list of some of those treated will give an idea 
of the nature of the story; there are the pin, the needle, candles, lamps, pe- 
troleum, the thermometer, mirrors, ivoiy, soap, the microscope, steamboats, 
railroads, locomotives, etc. It is one of the most interesting and instructive ' 
books issued for the young folks, and will be regarded by many as their great- 
est feature,** — New York School journal . 


YOUNU FOLKS’ IDEAS. 

A Story. By Uncle Lawrence, author of Young Folks’ 
Whys and Wherefores.” Profusely Illustrated with over 50 
handsome Engravings, specially adapted to the Text. Royal 
8vo. Illuminated Boards. $1.25. 

The author's aim in this, as in his preceding volume, has been to im- 
part information on a variety of scientific and industrial subjects. The style 
of the work is especially adapted to the taste and understanding of the young, 
and its interest will doubtless be further increased by the pleasing story which 
is skilfully woven into its pages. Some of the subjects treated of in the book 
are: How is Bread Made? Wheat, riarvests, and Mills. The Manufacture 
of Bread. Gold, Gold-Mines, and Placers. About Gold and Silver Money. 
Glass. Street Lamps and Gas. Something About Paper. The Printing- 
Press. Wool and Silk. Linen and Cotton Goods. Copper, Bronze, and 
Brass. Iron and Steel. Grapes and Wine-Making, etc. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


"k VEST HANDSOME AND A VERT VALUABLE WORK." 

Our Young Folks' Plutarch. 

Especially Adapted for Boys and Girls. 

Being all of Plutarch Told in a Simple, Easy, and 
Pleasant Style. 

By ROSALIE KAUFMAN. 

WITH IIaL.TJSTRA.TIOI^S 

Square 8yo. Eztra Cloth. $2.50. 


“ This is one of the most tasteful and substantially handsome 
books for young readers that has come under our eyes for a long 
time. The publishers have given these admirable stories the ad- 
vantages of the best book-making, and they certainly deserve all 
that art can do to make them attractive to children. We unhesi- 
tatingly commend this volume as one of the very best which the 
season will offer to book-buyers.” — New York Christian Union, 

** The book is well written, and can hold the attention of the 
•Id as well as young through its pages.” — Godeys Lady's Book, 

** Young readers will find these old biographies far more inter- 
esting and instructive than the vast majority of juvenile tales.” — 
Pittsburg Presbyterian Banner. 

** Rosalie Kaufman has done good service in the popular cause 
of juvenile literature. Plutarch is an author whose fascination 
first shows itself upon the young, and then holds an abiding 
place of honor even to extreme old age. What a treat lies before 
the eager boy or thoughtful girl to whom Plutarch will introduce, 
for the first time, the splendid personages of whom he writes.” — 
The American. 

*** For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage 
frepaid, on receipt of the price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


AN INSTRUCTIVE BOOK. FOR THE YOUNG. 

ODR YOUNG MS’ JOSEPHUS. 

The Antiquities of the Jews, and the Jewish Wars of Flavius Josephns. 

Edited by WILLIAM SHEPARD. 


With Eight Illnstrations. Large Octavo, Extra cloth, gilt. $2.50, 


** One would have thought that there was little or nothing in the history of 
*The Jewish Wars/ as related by Josephus, that could be made readable for 
young people. Yet Mr. Shepard has succeeded in making it so, and to a very 
marked degree. In his * Young Folks’ Josephus' he has admirably simplified 
the story of his people which that ancient Jewish historian gave to the Romans 
some eighteen centuries ago, omitting such parts as have no special interest, 
and giving to the narrative a charm and picturesqueness well fitted to arrest and 
to hold the attention of young readers.” — Boston Advertiser, 

**Mr. Shepard, in simplifying Josephus, has met a want of the times. 
These old masterpieces of literature which it used to be thought only mature 
minds could comprehend, rewritten into simpler language for young readers 
cannot fail of bringing about grand results. The ‘ Young Folks' Josephus' is 
written in language that any scholar in the fourth reader class can readily un- 
derstand and enjoy.” — Chautauquan^ Meadvilte, Pa. 

^Adapting the text from the story of the Old Testament as written by 
Josephus, Mr. William Shepard presents an interesting volume for the use of 
young people. The illustrations, reductions from Oore, add much to the ap- 
pearance of the book.” — New York Times. 

”A sample of the commendable work which is being done in providing 
valuable literature for the young is shown in ‘ Our Young Folks' Josephus,' a 
simplified version of the Jewish historian, written by William Shepard. The 
book comprises a brief life of Josephus, a chronological table of the leading 
events in Jewish history from 2078 b.c. to 70 a.d., and the substance of the 
two works of Josephus, ^ The Antiquity of the Jews' and ‘ The Jewish Wars.' 
Mr. Shepard has reproduced the narrative of the Jewish writer in a captivat- 
ing form. His style is a model of perspicuity and compression, and will be 
apt to enchain the reader by its charm alone. A number of illustrations after 
Dor^ are scattered through the text.” — Chicago Dial. 

”A specially valuable book for boys is * Our Young Folks' Josephus,' be- 
ing an adaptation of the ‘Antiquities of the Jews' and ‘ The Jewish Wars' of 
Flavius Josephus, by William Shepard. Mr. Shepard has simplified the story 
of the Jews as told by Josephus, so that the youngest child can easily compre- 
hend the facts. The present of a book of this character to a boy or girl is a 
very sensible act. The work is not of an ephemeral nature. While the lan- 
guage is simplified, it contains the meat and substance of ‘Josephus,' and will 
remain a standard work.” — Washington Post. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and 7L7 Market St., PKiladelptiia- 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B, LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


Our Yonng Folks’ Roman Empire, 

By William Shepard. Uniform with “ Young Folks’ Plutarch” 
and “Josephus.” 8 vo. With Sixteen Illustrations and Maps. 
Extra cloth, gilt. $2.^0. 

“ The author, in his brief preface, explains that the features of his book 
which adapt it to juvenile perusal are that it is written in homely English, 
that it dwells very lightly upon those darker features of social life in the Roman 
Empire which make a more detailed picture of that period unfit for young 
people, and that it avoids controverted questions, especially in matters of sec- 
tarian concern. The work fairly justifies all these claims, and offers a clear 
and well-arranged narrative, which older readers, who have no time for Gib- 
bon, may peruse with instruction and interest. There are some tolerably 
good illustrations and a satisfactory map.'* — New York Critic. 

“ The author, confining himself to admitted facts of history, tells the story 
and characteristics of the succeeding reigns in manner to bring out qualities of 
men and events and make his young reader interested in and appreciate them, 
the while begetting in him a love of the study of history. No work of the 
kind could be more desirable, and it will secure the favor of all who examine 
it carefully. It contains 478 pages, with a reproduction of the statue of Julius 
Caesar, fifteen full-page illustrations, and a map. It is printed on fine paper, 
and bound in strong covers, having holiday attractiveness." — Boston Globe. 

** William Shepard has done a good work for old folks as well as young. 
The book evinces a good deal of painstaking reading of the standard works on 
Roman history, and an unusual tact in stating simply and clearly matters that 
have often been mystified by mere rhetorical embellishments," — Philadelphia 
Times. 

“The author of this splendid volume has fully accomplished his purpose 
in preparing a history of the Roman empire adapted to juvenile perusal. 'Ihat 
such a task is no light one can be readily understood when it is remembered 
that only the few and specially gifted succeed. Thus, from his discussion of 
the causes which led to the formation of the empire up to those which brought 
its fall, he has collated a succinct history of events, bringing into prominence 
only those pleasing dramatic pictures in which the youthful mind would most 
naturally find attraction and entertainment. The illustrations are spirited." 
— St. Louis Republican. 

“ We are surprised sometimes to notice the wonderful voluntary interest 
manifested in the study of ancient history. This book answers our queries in 
that regard. The story of the Roman empire, from its mythical beginning 
through all the centuries of struggle for greatness to the fall and consequent 
breaking up of its accumulated strength, is most charmingly told. There is no 
reason why our young people should devote their time to the reading of worth- 
less publications, when the very best, containing the facts of history, the deeds 
of great and mighty men, the destinies of nations, are written in such fasci- 
nating style, bringing them, so to speak, in contact with the people of centuries 
ago. Every teacher of history should make this work a companion, because 
a careful study of it will enable him to present the facts of history in a manner 
to please and properly inform the youthful mind." — Chautauquan, Cin., O. 

*** Por sale by all Booksellers , or will be sent by mail postage prepaid^ 
on receipt 0/ the price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

7tS and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 



TAKEN 

BY 

SIEGE 

A NOVEI.. 


llandsotnely Isstted 
in 12mo JFor^tif 

WITH 

Clear, Large Type, 
Fine Paper, 

AND 

Attractive Binding. 


Extra Cloth. $1.25. 


“This is a charming love-story, interesting alike to all, and sustains a 
high interest to the close. It is a book that the reader will not willingly 
lay aside until the pleasing sequel is reached.”— 0/ito State Journal. 

“ A graphic and very interesting anonymous story of a young journal- 
ist’s experiences in New York. Who the hero may be is enveloped in 
mystery, but that the heroine is Miss Clara Louise Kellogg there is little 
doubt. The other characters will be readily recognized as conspicuous 
in New York society. The story reveals the inside workings of some of 
the metropolitan newspapers, and shows how, by pluck, brains, and luck, 
a new man may sometimes rise rapidly to the highest rank in journal- 
ism, distancing the veterans. The author has unusual ability as a writer 
of fiction.” — Albany Journal. 

“ A sketch of New York life, characterized by a certain dash and fresh- 
ness. It possesses vigor and lightness. The author has produced an 
entertaining story.”— Journal. 

“The book is pure and wholesome; the story entertaining, good, 
healthy, and Te&d&hle.'’— Philadelphia Inquirer. 

“The story deals with the living forces and events of to-day, and is one 
of the most vital and strong and keenly interesting of late novels.” — 
Boston Evening Traveller. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent, post-paid, on receipt of the 
price by the Publishers, 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 


715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia 


PUBLICATIONS OF y. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


ON BOTH SIDES. 

By Miss Fanny Courtenay Baylor. 

/Jeataiaing “The Perfect Treasure” and “On This Side,’ the whole forming a complete storj; 
13mo. Extra cloth. $1.25. 


''No such faithful, candid, kindlv, brilliant, and incisive presentation of 
English and American types has before been achieved. The wit of the 
story is considerable. It is written brilliantly, yet not flimsily. It is the 
best international novel that either side has hitherto produced. It is written 
by an American woman who really knows both countries, and who has shown 
that she possesses powers which ought to put her in the front rank of fiction." 
— Ne^u York Tribune, 

" For a number of months past the readers of Lippincotf s Magazine have 
been delighted by the instalments of one of the most charming stories that has 
yet been written by an American girl, and the wonder was that the story did 
not excite a wider interest. ‘On Both Sides' has now been published in book 
form, and proves to be a positive surprise to the literary world. There is 
neither an Englishman nor an American writer on this side or that who might 
not be proud to have written this international novel. It will be one of the 
most popular books of the season, — one that will be read, criticised, and 
talked about in all the circles of intelligent society." — Neiv Orleans Picayune. 

“Miss Baylor’s clever story has had such high marks of appreciation during 
its appearance as a serial in Lippincott' s Magazine, that its publication in 
book form is most gratifying. There is one test of the unfailing spirit and 
good humor of the novel. Hosts of magazine readers have been awaiting its 
publication, as a whole, in order to mail it to English friends. Both nationali- 
ties, in fact, are so delicately and humorously satirized, that it is a truly 
'international' piece of fun. The good points, the true distinction of good 
breeding in manners and customs pertaining to each of the two peoples, and 
the thorough good understanding of the genuine people in the story, are the 
most satisfactory of its conclusions; but it is a sharp stylus that sets down the 
pretensions of the vulgar on either side. It looks as though Daisy Miller 
were avenged at last — and yet no offence either given or received." — Phila^ 
delphia Ledger. 

“ In Miss Baylor’s work we have a novel entertaining from beginning to 
end, with brightness that never falls flat, that always suggests something be- 
yond the mere amusement, that w'ill be most enjoyed by those of most cultiva- 
tion, that is clever, keen, and intellectual enough to be recognized as genuine 
wit, and yet good-natured and amiable enough to be accepted as the most de- 
lightful humor. It is not fun, but intelligent wit ; it is not mere comicality, 
but charming humor; it is not a collection of bright sayings of clever people, 
but a reproduction of ways of thought and types of manner infinitely enter- 
taining to the reader, while not in the least funny to the actor, or intended by 
him to appear funny. It is inimitably good as a rendering of the peculiarities 
of British and of American nature and training, while it is so perfectly free 
from anything like ridicule, that the victims would be the first to smile.” — • 
The Critic. 

*:jc*For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT C03IPANY, Publishers, 


Nos. 715 AND 717 Market Street. Philadel viia. 


PUBLICATIONS OF y, B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 



A NOVKI.. 

By Mary Agnes Tincker, author of “ The Jewel in the 

Lotus,” etc. 

Illustrated. 12ino. Extra cloth. $1.25. 


** It is a story so delicately wrought, so artistically perfect, that one reads it 
with a delight that deepens into fervor and enthusiasm. It is a story of Italian 
life, — of love, of intrigue, of despair, of aspiration. It is full of dramatic 
situations, and of subtle, pervasive power.*' — Boston Evening Traveller. 

*** Aurora,' by Mary Agnes Tincker, is a novel of extraordinary power and 
interest, in which the author of ‘ Signor Monaldini's Niece’ has even surpassed 
the high mark made in that remarkable story. Its plot is original ; its varieties 
of character are portrayed with consummate skill; the different scenes — in 
Granada, in Sassoviso, at Ischia, and in Venice — are like pictures in vivid- 
ness ; indeed, the entire presentation is that of imagination to imagination." 
’—Hartford Courant. 

** The whole book is very entertaining, and there are one or two English 
characters in whom the reader will be interested." — London Academy. 

** Miss Tincker’s stories of Italian life invariably possess points of high 
charm, are eloquent jn description, and are pervaded by a poetic ardor, which 
she puts into striking relief by offering in contrast vivid and realistic pictures 
of commonplace existence. In 'Aurora' there are scandals, falsehoods, in- 
trigues, all the machinations of powerful and unscrupulous workers in evil, 
which finally meet their punishment and their remedy in the catastrophe of 
the earthquake at Casamicciola. This culmination of the story is admirably 
given, and is full of powerful and artistic effects." — Philadelphia American. 

" Everything which Miss Tincker writes bears the stamp of a refined mind, 
a poetic temperament, and unmistakable genius. The story glows with 
Southern warmth and sparkles with good things, and is very complete in 
every way." — London Whitehall Review. 

" Possesses all the charms which characterized her excellent novel, ' The 
Jewel in the Lotus.' In some respects it is a better written story than the 
work just named, and it falls below it in nothing. There is a genuine feeling 
for nature and poetry throughout the book, and its freshness and delicacy are 
very pleasant." — New York Tribune. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

Nos- 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


SAINT MICHAEL 

Mrs, TVister^s Netv translation. 

A Romance. From the German of E. Werner, author of “ Banned and 

Blessed/' etc. 

BY MRS. A. B. WISYBR, 

TRANSLATOR OP 

“ The Second Wife," “ The Old Mam’selle’s Secret," “ Violetta," etc. 
121T10. Cloth. $1.25. 


The novels of E. Werner are always readable and in the highest de- 
gree entertaining. Mrs. Wister’s refined and pure taste never leads her 
amiss in making her selections, and the novel before us is more interest- 
ing than any of its predecessors. She is one of the best translators from 
the German in this country, and the felicitous manner in which the 
work has been done in the present volume adds to the charm of a truly 
agreeable novel. 

“ Of the many charming translations from the German by Mrs. Wister, 
none can surpass in interest that of ‘ St. Michael,’ the characters being 
strong and naturally drawn. The work abounds in striking situations, 
and does not contain a page which the reader is disposed to skip."— 
more News. 

“ The romantic tales of E. Werner, which Mrs. Wister, through indus- 
trious translation, has made well known to American readers, are appre- 
ciated by many who like pure romance to sweeten the realities of life. 
‘ St. Michael,’ the last in the series, abounds in many poetical and dra- 
matic situations, is full of military fire and energy, having many spirited 
scenes, and maintaining the interest of the reader.’’— Boston Journal. 

“ It is full of life, many of the incidents are exciting, and the characters 
in themselves becoming interesting as the romance progresses." — Pitts^ 
burg Chronicle- Telegraph. 

" The novel before us is more interesting than any of its predecessors. 
The manner in which the work has been done adds to the charm of a 
truly agreeable novel.” — Harrisburg Telegraph. 

"A thoroughly enjoyable story, and one which will never be left un- 
finished when once begun.’’— Boston Courier. 

" The story is a brisk one, at times almost melodramatic ; with two 
romances of unusual iwiQTQSt.’'— Philadelphia Bulletin. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent, post-paid, on receipt of the 
price by the Publishers, 

J. B. ]-IF>F>INOOTT 


715 and 717 Market St., PMladelphia. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B, LXPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


MRS. H. LOVETT CMERON’8 NOVELS 


WORTH WINNING. 

i6mo. Half bound, 50 cents. Paper cover, 25 cents. 

Mrs. Cameron is a vivacious, entertaining, and pure writer. 
The plot and movement of her stories are interesting, and they 
are all deservedly popular. 


VERA NEVILL; 

Or, Poor Wisdom’s Chance. 

i6mo. Half bound, 50 cents. Paper cover, 25 cents. 

“ There is unusual force in this novel. The character of the 
heroine is drawn with great power, while the incidents fit into 
each other with rare skill, leading up to the denouement with an 
artistic fitness not often Peterson’s Magazine. 

“Is intensely dramatic. The style throughout is bright and 
readable.” — San Fi'andsco Chronicle. 

“Is one of the really good English novels of the season.”— 
Boston Advertiser. 


PURE GOLD. 

i6mo. Half bound, 50 cents. Paper cover, 25 cents. 

“It is well written, and the book throughout is thoroughly 
Interesting.” — Boston Globe. 

“It is an interesting Biory.”— Baltimore American. 

“The narrative is sometimes sensational in development, and 
always entertaining, and will be found to be full of human in- 
terest. It is, in short, a good old English story of the present day, 
and can be read with profit.”— >SS^. Louis Republican, 


IN A GRASS COUNTRY. 

A Story of Love and Sport. 

i6mo. Half bound, 50 cents. Paper cover, 25 cents. 

“ Is so fresh and fascinating that one cannot easily be tempted 
to lay the book aside without having read it from cover to cover.” 
— Boston Advertiser. 

“Is an uncommonly good story of love and sport. ' It is, first of 
all, entertaining. There is not a dull line in the whole story, nor a 
paragraph to be skipped. The book is full of merriment.”— 
York Critic. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of the price by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 


PUBLICATIONS OF y. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


VieLCTTA. 

A romance. 

After the German of Ursula ZOge von Mahteuffel. 
Translated by Mrs. A. L. Wister. 

I 2 mo. Cloth. SI. 25 . 


‘“Violetta/ as adapted by Mrs. Wister, is a clever novel. The characters 
are clear-cut, natural, and strong. The situations are full of interest, the dialogue 
is bright and vigorous. The heroine is a particularly happy conception, worked 
out with much skill. There is decided power in the book, and a delicacy of manip- 
ulation so rare as to be very agreeable. Mrs, Wister has so skilfully adapted thtf 
story that it could not read more smoothly if it had been written in English." — 
New York Tribune. 

“To see the name of Mrs. A. L. Wister on the title-page as the translator of 
a German story has become a sufficient guarantee that the book is of high merit 
and fascinating interest. This is eminently true of her latest translation, ‘Vio- 
letta/ while the character-drawing throughout is very strong and artistic, the 
charming little heroine is presented with exquisite beauty. The plot of the story 
is worked out in a manner to hold the closest interest, and the local coloring as 
well as the character-drawing is beautifully artistic, while the sentiments of the 
story oan but meet the approval of the most exacting." — Boston Home yournal. 

“ In brief, this novel is thoroughly charming and should receive a wide and 
growing circle of readers." — St. Louis Republican. 

“ This is a charming story, and, although romantic in tone, preserves the natu- 
ral to an eminent degree. It is a story of German high life, and, of course, can- 
not be prosaic. In giving this book to the public, Mrs. Wister has made an ex- 
cellent selection from German light literature. It is a book that everybody can 
read with pleasure and profit." — Charleston News and Courier. 

'* It has become to be understood in this country that any book of Germaa 
axthor which Mrs. Wister condescends to translate for American readers is weU 
worthy their attention. This book emphasizes their opinion. It is a charming 
•tory, and the lady is to be thanked for so carefully catering to the taste of hei 

’\tSLgc. Of course, the pnnt and binding is everything to be desired ' — Pit/s^ 
hurf^ Chronicle-Telegraph. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of the price, by 

• J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Pnljlisliers, 


715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia, 


-^• REDUCED IN PRICE TO $1.25 


THE COLONEL’S DAUQHTER; 

OR, 

WINNING Ills SPURS. 

B'sr Ci3:a.i?.XjES IBCi3iT<3-- 

12mo. Extra Cloth. SI, 25. 

** The sketches of life in a cavalry command on the frontier are exceedingly 
Tivid and interesting; and the element of adventure is furnished in the graphic 
and spirited accounts of affairs with the hostile Apaches. Captain King is to be 
thanked for an entertaining contribution to the slender stock of American mili- 
tary novels — a contribution so good that we hope that he will give us another.** 
— y. y. Tribune. 

** The fertility of this field of garrison and reservation life has already at- 
tr icted the attention of several writers. We took up the work of Captain King 
with the impression that it might be like some of these, an ephemeral production; 
we found it instead a charming work, worthy of achieving a permanent place in 
literature. We cordisdly congratulate Captain King on his accomplished suc- 
cess, for such unquestionably it is.” — Army and Navy yournal^ N. V. 

There have been few American novels published of late years so thoroughly 
readable as * The Colonel’s Daughter,* which, if it be Captain King’s first essay 
in fiction, is assuredly a most encouraging production.” — Literary World. 

The volume is a remarkable work of fiction, and will be found entertaining 
and well worthy a careful reading.” — Chicago Tribune. 

” Not for many a season has there appeared before the public a novel so 
thoroughly captivating as * The Colonel’s Daughter.’ Its fresh flavor cannot fail 
to please the veriest ennuyi, while its charming style would disarm the most 
fastidious critic. W’ith that delicacy of touch peculiar to his workmanship, he 
draws now upon pathos, now upon humor, but never strains either quality to its 
utmost capacity, which distinctly proves that Captain King is a writer of signal 
ability, whose novel of * The Colonel’s Daughter’ we hope is but the prelude 
to many others.” — Milwaukee Sentinel. 

** A departure into a new field in novel writing ought always to be wel- 
comed. * The Colonel’s Daughter’ is, strictly speaking, the first American mil- 
itary novel. It is a good one, and Captain King ought to follow up the complete 
success he has made with other stories of army life on the American frontier. 
The stvle of the author is unaffected, pure in tone, and elevating in moral 
effect.’ — Wisconsin State yournal. 

Captain King has in this novel prepared for us a clear and interesting story 
of army incidents in the West. He is au fait in the art which made Sir Walter 
Scott a companion for old and young — the art which brings to the mind of the 
reader that sentient power which places us directly into communion with the 
imaginary characters filling their parts in a book. The military incidents are 
interwoven into the inspiring love episode that to the pages of this work add an- 
imation.” — Times-Democrat, New Orleans. 

The Colonel’s Daughter; or. Winning His Spurs,’ a story of military life 
at an Arizona post, written by Captain Charles King, U.S.A.,and published by 
J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, may rightfully claim to be a good novel. 
Its characters are strong and clear-cut ; its plot original and well sustained, and 
the pictures of militar>- life on the frontier, of Apache character, and of the 
physical features of Arizona Territory are realistic and fascinating.** — San 
Francisco Bulletin. 

”The outcome of the novel is just what every reader would wish. It is a 
splendid story, full of life and enjoyment, and will doubtless prove a great 
favorite.” — Iowa State Register, Des Moines. 

For Sale by all Booksellers. 

Published b,. j ^ LTPIrfCO COMPANY, Philadelphia, Pa 


tr*’i 



PUBLICATIONS^ OF y. B. LIPPJNCOTT COMPANY. 

: . ■ 

“A BRILLIANT 'PICTURE OF GARRISON LIFE.” 

MARION’S FAITH. 

.By Captain CHARLES KING, U.S.A., 

Author of “ The Colonel’s Daughter/' 

Kitty’s Conquest/' etc. 


i2mo. Extra cloth $1.25 

“ Captain King has done what the many admirers of his charming 
first story, ‘ The Colonel’s Daughter/ hoped he would do, — he has written 
another novel of American army life. The present is in some sort a 
continuation of the former, many of the characters of the first story re- 
appearing in the pages of this volume. The scenes of the story are laid 
in the frontier country of the West, and fights with the Cheyenne Indians 
afford sufficiently stirring incidents. The same bright, sparkling style 
and easy manner which rendered ‘ The Colonel’s Daughter’ and ‘ Kitty’s 
Conquest’ so popular and so delightful, characterize the present volume. 
It is replete with spirited, interesting, humorous, and pathetic pictures of 
soldier life on the frontier, and will be received with a warm welcome, 
not only by the large circle of readers of the author’s previous works, 
but by all who delight in an excellent story charmingly told .” — Chicago 
Evening yournaL 

” The author of this novel is a gallant soldier, now on the retired list 
by reason of wounds received in the line of duty. The favor with which 
his books have been received proves that he can write as well as fight. 

‘ Marion’s Faith' is a very pleasing story, with a strong flavor of love and 
shoulder-straps, and military life, and cannot but charm the reader.” — 
National Tribune, Washington, D. C. 

” Captain King has caught the true spirit of the American novel, for 
he has endowed his work fully and freely with the dash, vigor, breeziness, 
bravery, tenderness, and truth which are recognized throughout the 
world as our national characteristics. Moreover, he is letting in a flood 
of light upon the hidden details of army life in our frontier garrisons and 
amid the hills of the Indian country. He is giving the public a bit of 
insight into the career of a United States soldier, and abundantly de- 
monstrating that the Custers and Mileses and Crooks of to-day are not 
mere hired men, but soldiers as patriotic, unselfish, and daring as any 
of those who went down with the guns in the great civil strife. Captain 
King’s narrative work is singularly fascinating.” — St. Louis Republican. 

” As descriptions of life at an army post, and of the vicissitudes, trials, 
and heroisms of army life on the plains, in what are called ‘ times of 
peace,’ the two novels of Captain King are worthy of a high and per- 
manent place in American literature. They will hereafter take rank with 
Cooper’s novels as distinctively American works of fiction .” — Army and 
Navy Register, Washington, D, C. 





















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